Pass the towel, please.

At the Whitaker household, we conserve. We are conscientious of turning lights out when we leave rooms. We don't leave water running. We recycle our cans, but before we recycle them, we crush them so that more will fit in the bin. When we built our house, we picked up rocks around the farm and used them to build our fireplace. We mini-vanned, bunk-bedded, and still use the sniff test on our shirts. And at the dinner table, there are never napkins to be found; rather, we use towels.

Now, I don't want to give you the impression that we each have our very own towel. No. That would go against every law of conservation. I also don't want to mislead you into thinking that we at least use a clean towel at every meal. No, no. If finger foods are not involved, then that towel has a lifespan of at least 3 uses, maybe more depending on the number of mouths and fingers present per meal. No. All of the Whitakers sit around the table and "pass" the same towel:

Sticky jelly fingers? "Pass the towel, please."
Honey coated biscuit lips? "Pass the towel, please."
Laughing so hard that milk flies out of the nose? "Pass the towel, please!"
(Manners are very important.)

I did not realize that towel passing is abnormal until last year. I am a 25 year old woman who has been to dinner at many other homes, yet never realized that 5 humans sharing the same towel at a meal is odd. I just thought everybody broke out paper towels when they had guests. I mean, family is one thing, but who wants to wipe their mouth in the same exact spot as a stranger?

The Keeper of the Towel is always my mother. Somehow, at every meal, the towel ends up beside her. We have given her a hard time about this for most of my existence. It's gotten to the point that we see it down there beside her and, whether we need it or not, we'll say, "Who has the towel?" and look around as if it's a mystery. Then, the four of us laugh and laugh while Mom rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed.

If my mischievious dad spots the towel down there, he employs his stealth nod to get our attention until we're all thinking the same thing, my poor mother completely oblivious. On his cue, in a magnificent chorus, we'll say, "Pass the towel, please" in perfect unison. (I think I can justifiably compare her irritation with us to that of a small dog with 10,000 fleas.)

She usually ends up just launching it in Dad's direction, (which is such a double standard, if you ask me. We can't sing at or put our elbows on the table, but she can heave a bright pink beach towel at my father?!)

Having to dodge flying fabric at the dinner table usually leaves him wrecked. He starts laughing so hard that he has to push his chair away from the table. He usually has to take off his glasses with one hand while he's slapping his leg with the other - my mother's face set in stone. Watching my father riddled with the giggles could cripple even the toughest stone-face, and my brother, sister, and I are slapping the table and trying not to snort out our food. My mother will try to continue her meal, but eventually, she'll break down with a chuckle. She usually looks at each of us, shakes her head, and says, "Y'all are ignert."

I'm honestly not sure how the towel always makes it's way back to her. It's like a magnetic force - like a kinship - like she and the towel are one. But I wouldn't have it any other way.