#*folds hands* so. i was reading this paper on quantum leap and about the way history is portrayed in fiction

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead

Summary: Steve goes back. Some things are the same. Some are different.

AO3 link here.

The problem with deciding not to come back from returning the stones is that he has no one to consult about what exactly that means. Bucky, the only one who knows, the only one who guessed, has no expertise in quantum physics or advice about what exactly he’ll be doing to the timeline.

“You’re taking all the stupid with you,” he’d said, and part of what he meant was this: going off half-cocked as always, Rogers. Seat of your goddamn pants. He isn’t wrong about that part. For a strategist, Steve spends a lot of his time winging it.

(He tries not to miss Sam. He misses Sam.)

Even once he’s taken the leap, used the Pym particles to land himself so far back that he’ll only make it to the twenty-first century again by living through until then, he doesn’t precisely know what to do about it all. He spends a week alone, and then another. He does odd jobs to make money for food and a room to sleep in. He’s forgotten how different something like finding work had been, in the days before resumes and networking and the necessary google of someone’s name and background. People look at his eyes and assume he’s a vet, they look at his arms and assume that he can lift and carry things; they’re right on both counts, and that’s enough.

He already took the chance, just coming back here, but he worries about what he might do to Peggy’s future - her amazing, groundbreaking future - if he tries to slip back into her life. But he is also so tired, so encompassingly tired. He has helped to hold the world up for what feels a lifetime: Atlas with arms exhausted and shaking. He imagines how sweet it will feel to rest with her beside him. He knows he has to try.

(He must have known it all along. He brought himself to Washington D.C. in 1949. Peggy’s lived here for just over two years.)

He knows her address. He can remember the exact pattern of the heart monitor, the precise places where she laughed as she told him about the K Street apartment that had first been rented for her.

“Ghastly place,” she had said, smiling even as she did. “Everything dark wood, with barely a window for a bit of sunlight. And practically on top of scandal: I couldn’t go out my front door without thinking of Teapot Dome! So I had the housing stipend rerouted to a lovely little place on 11th Street and things worked out rather nicely. I didn’t feel quite so miserable about coming home, and there was a grocery and a café right across the street.”

He waits for her in the café, tucked in the back. Peggy comes in promptly at seven in the morning. She speaks to the woman behind the counter, a young black woman with a wide, sweet smile, and carries a cup of tea over while her breakfast is being prepared in the kitchen. She sits down at one of the tables entirely automatically, picking up a newspaper and not even looking as she slides into the booth seat facing toward the door. Her regular spot, then.

(Nat always said he made a terrible spy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be observant.)

He means to come sit on the seat opposite from her. He pictures it minutely, down to the way the vinyl will rub and give as he slides across, but he finds that he cannot picture how she will look at him, what she will say. In the moment, he freezes. He ends up looming awkwardly over her for long enough that she looks up at him, a polite smile on her face as if she expects to be handed a plate of bacon and eggs, or perhaps to need to turn down a request for a date.

But then she takes in what she’s seeing.

She breathes in a sob. Her teacup is already sitting on the tabletop, but she sets down her folded paper as carefully as if it were made of porcelain too.

“Steve?” He feels the echo of the fragile word through decades. He thought he knew, when he saw her for the first time barely able to lift her head from her hospital bed, when he found the photograph that she kept so boldly on her SHIELD desk twenty-five years after he'd been gone, that they would be like this in any time. Apparently he didn’t truly know until he hears it. He is shaking.

She stands abruptly, pushing herself out of the booth and catching his hands in hers. She is so very close to him.

“Am I going to have to murder Howard for keeping secrets?” she asks quietly. He shakes his head. She traces over the skin of his forehead, no longer as smooth as it had been. She runs fingers through the front curve of his hair, strange to her, with such perfect delicacy that he almost flinches away.

“No,” she agrees quietly, and takes her handbag from the table. “Come with me. I have to set a terrible example for my employees.”

Later, after Peggy calls in pretending to be sick to a Howard simultaneously suspicious (when was the last time Peggy was ill?) and totally heedless, probably already thinking of what kinds of explosions he’s going to be taking on today, she makes them fresh tea. He can tell that it’s just a distraction. The kettle is whistling for nearly a minute before she breaks their gaze and goes to pour the water.

When they are across from each other at her small kitchen table, she says, “Tell me,” and he does, a bit.

When he has finished his brief sketch of things, she takes a sip of tea. “So, the future,” she says, her voice musing rather than judging.

“You seem to be taking this pretty well,” he tells her.

“Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure that this is real, you see,” she explains.

He looks out her nice little window for a moment; when he leaves, he’ll have no memory of the kind of view she has. “If I’d showed up and said that I’d been dug out of the ice and came to find you, would you have believed it more?”

“Perhaps,” she admits. She looks into his eyes, though, and adds quietly, “But perhaps not.”

“I understand. Even where I’ve been, time travel is a pretty new development.” He pushes back from the table, carefully so as not to rattle Peggy’s pretty blue-edged china. He looks down at her, and she looks back, a bit of tilting evaluation in her eyes. “The Dodgers are going to lose the Series to the Yankees, four games to one. It’ll all be over Sunday night. The score of the last game will be ten to six.”

She swallows. “Then I suppose I shall see you Monday morning?” Her hands, with their neatly manicured nails, rest solidly on the table in front of her. Her knuckles are pressed tightly together.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” he says, nodding slightly to her, and sees himself out.

She is already waiting when he enters the café on Monday morning. The only clue to how she’s feeling is the way her head pops quickly up whenever the door swings open.

“I’m sorry about your Dodgers,” she says as he sits down across from her.

He shakes his head. “The Yanks will do even worse to the Phillies next year,” he says, and she covers her mouth with a trembling hand.

When she speaks again, it is aching. “Let’s go home,” she says.

“Don’t you have work?”

“I planned ahead this time. As far as anyone knows, I’m scheduled to be out of the office in meetings all day.” She examines him again. He understands the urge; he thinks at this point he could describe where each of her curls lies against her shoulders, and if he couldn’t, he’ll just need to take her in a while longer.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Of course I am.” Humor, just the most hidden hint of tears. “It seems that you’re still a bit hopeless, I see, even after all this time.”

(Tony would have said the same thing. Tony.)

“Probably.” He gets to his feet, offers her his hand. She takes it, lightly, more formality than anything else, and stands beside him. “I’ll work on it.”

“I’m sure you will.” She leads him out again, toward her apartment. “And I’ll certainly be happy to assist.”

They settle into something. It’s so easy that Steve catches his breath from it sometimes, exultation with a bold edge of fear. She goes to work, and he stays in their neighborhood. He does the shopping at the corner market and learns, after a fashion and several borrowed library books, how to cook. He does the laundry, and learns the hard way which of Peggy's suits need special care. He walks around getting to know the area.

He overhears two of Peggy’s neighbors whispering about him as he helps a little boy fix his bike chain on the street corner.

“I always thought she must have a man somewhere,” one says to the other.

“Well, he’s lucky she took him back. She’s been here two years, nice, polite girl with a good job and that wonderful smile, and he turns up now? Where has he been?”

“I’m not much sure it matters, looking at him.”

Steve tucks his head and grins.

He stops by the newsstand for a paper enough times that the owner, an older guy named Al, eventually asks if he’d like to do a bit of work. Steve knows it’s mostly pity, but he’s restless. He takes Al up on it, working pasted together hours so Al can take breaks during the day and get home a bit earlier in the evenings. He hangs around and chats other times. They talk baseball (Al’s a Chicago transplant, a heart and soul Cubs fan) and world events and dabble a bit into politics (Steve has to read the papers closely to try to keep his stories straight). Al had a son who never came home from Guadalcanal, and maybe that’s why, when he sees Steve sketching between customers, he asks him to fix up the sign above the stand, just a little refresh on the paint and maybe a nice little drawing.

Steve guesses that he does a good enough job, because the owner of the cafe and the drugstore ask for him to come over to their places, to do bigger murals inside. He starts to get asked to do all sorts of things, from house painting to pretty watercolor cards. He’s still home in time to make supper and talk to Peggy every evening.

He knows, now, that Peggy has a thick quilted dressing gown that looks like something a grandmother would wear, and doesn’t make him feel like a grandmother’s wearing it at all. He knows how she takes her tea and that she likes a square or two of chocolate at the end of the day. He knows how it feels for her to rest her feet in his lap as they read on lazy Saturday afternoons, and what it’s like to walk arm in arm back home talking about the film they’ve seen on a Sunday. He knows the giddiness of automatically calling her “sweetheart” as he asks her to pass the salt. He knows what she looks like when she first gets up, and the careful, precise order in which she applies her makeup and styles her hair. He knows what it’s like to kiss her on waking and as she leaves for work, as she arrives back home and before they go to bed. He knows what it is to fall asleep beside her, smiling.

He wakes himself up, shuddering, at least three times a week. Sometimes he is gasping. Sometimes he is crying. Most times he wakes Peggy too.

Early one Saturday morning, she switches on the light as he tries to calm himself. She rubs his arm for a moment before standing from the bed and putting on her dressing gown. He can hear the sound of her preparing tea in the kitchen, but when she doesn’t come back, he follows her.

“Sit,” she tells him, gesturing to the chair across from her at the table, and when he does, “Drink,” her voice firm and compassionate. He listens to her, taking a sip and then staring into the depths of his cup. She’s put in just the right amount of sugar.

After a moment, she says, “I haven’t asked you very much about where you’ve come from, but I think we both know how untenable that is. You need to talk. I’d like to hear it.”

He takes another sip, then a third. Finally, he hoarsely, “I don’t know if I can tell you. I’ve already changed your life just by coming here. I don’t know how much I can do without ruining things.”

“Steve.” She leans across the table, touches his arm, his face. Her disheveled hair falls forward a little, framing the warmth of her eyes. “You are the best man I have ever known, and perhaps the strongest. And I don’t think you need to go through this alone. Let me help you.”

He almost laughs. How many times did he say something like that to people grieving a disaster that won’t happen for decades? How many times did he ignore his own advice? He thinks, again, of Sam. “Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it.”

He thinks that Sam also meant that sometimes you find someone to carry it with you.

They don’t get out of their pajamas until well into the afternoon. Once Steve starts talking, he finds that he can’t stop. He tells her about Hydra (“Get up with bloody fleas, I told them”) and about Bucky. He tells her about Korea and McCarthy and Vietnam and the civil rights movement, about Betty Friedan and President Kennedy and President Nixon, about AIDS and global warming. He was in the twenty-first century for over a decade. He reads fast and doesn’t sleep much, and his memory is excellent.

He tells her about the snap. He tells her about his friends.

Finally, with darkness outside their windows, he says to her, “I keep thinking about Maya Lin. She’ll be an architect and a designer. She becomes famous for making the memorial for the war in Vietnam. I know it’s right to do what we can to avoid that war, to minimize that damage. Making that choice could be wrong for Maya Lin. It will change her life. How do we know which strings we can pull without letting everything fall apart?”

Peggy looks down at the notes she has started taking. She flips over one page, then another. “Well, we shall think and strategize and try our best to do the best for the most people.” She taps a finger on one paragraph. “I think that this is one string we should start tying up as quickly as we can.”

"If I see a situation pointed south, I can't ignore it," he told Tony once, and that was true. It still is. It's just harder when south isn't a clear direction on the compass, when trying to fix things could only make things worse. This is why Steve could tell her, why he had to. Because he believes in her mind, in her ruthlessness and her clearheadedness, but in her goodness too. He doesn't think he could have done any of this alone.

(He must have known he would do this all along. He brought himself to Washington D.C. in 1949. Zola was brought here just over two months ago.)

They tell Howard. Partly because they need him, to provide documentation for Steve, for resources, for cover. Partly because Peggy says that he’s a friend and he’s trustworthy, and Steve trusts Peggy. For his own part, though, Steve needs to work to remember how much hasn’t happened with Howard. He hasn’t become who he’ll become yet.

Steve sleeps better knowing that they’re doing something. He doesn’t sleep well until they have Bucky back.

“Any idea what he’ll be like after rise and shine?” asks Howard, checking once again the pulse of the man lying unconscious on one of his many guest beds. To everyone else, Bucky’s hair is long, unkempt. For Steve, it’s shorter than he’s used to now. The arm, high tech for this time, looks especially ugly and primitive.

Steve thinks back to all the information they gained after the fall of the Triskelion. Nazi records have always been blessed and cursed. “He hasn’t been under for too long. It won’t be pretty at first, but we’ll be able to get him back.”

In bed that night, Peggy holds his hand beneath the blanket and whispers, “Hopefully we’ll get him back back without you trying to sacrifice yourself,” and he doesn’t know whether she’s talking about Azzano or the helicarrier, and he likes that she has the option for either.

They count on the minimization of Hydra’s influence to help stabilize things, and they’ll prove to be right. Peggy also cultivates herself a reputation for sound, nearly prescient, advice to other agencies. It will help them influence things they need to in the future, but it’s already believable, based on a solid foundation. No one suspects the man who’s occasionally seen on her arm at functions or visiting her office - bearded, older, bearing only a passing resemblance to the lost Captain America - of having anything to do with it. He barely talks shop with the guys, usually ends up recommending recipes to the wives.

“I do prefer you in an apron and pearls,” Peggy says as Steve rubs her feet after one such night out, her heels discarded beneath the kitchen table.

“It’s the natural order of things,” Steve tells her solemnly.

“Too right, pal,” Bucky calls from the bathroom. (He heard from Al at the newsstand that they were having trouble with their sink and came over to help rather than let Steve take care of it. “Flood the whole place, more like.”)

Neither of them quite knows who proposed to whom. Steve claims he did it, Peggy attests with equal vehemence that she took the initiative. Neither of them much cares when it comes down to it.

They invite the Commandos to the wedding. Or, rather, Peggy invites them, and then when they all show up with faltering, incomplete smiles, Steve comes over to say hello.

“If it was anyone else but the two of you, I don’t know that I could believe it,” Monty says, dazed.

Dugan wants horse racing tips. Morita wants to know if he ever makes it with Ava Gardner. “Already tried asking that one, pal,” says Howard sourly.

“Sometimes you just have to live it,” says Steve, and goes to take another turn on the floor with his wife.

They move to Jersey in ‘52. Steve’s afraid that Bucky’s going to have an aneurysm over the betrayal, but the commute’s easier on Peggy now that SHIELD’s working out of Camp Lehigh most of the time.

(Buck ends up living in Brooklyn near his folks and goes back to school to get his engineering degree. Howard says he doesn’t care, he knew how much schooling Bucky had when he offered him the job, but Bucky wants to earn it, and he likes to learn.)

Somehow, it takes three days to pack up the apartment in DC and three weeks to unpack in their cozy little house in New Jersey. Peggy’s pulling late nights all the time as she gets things put together, but she refuses to let Steve do much during the day: they both have extremely strong opinions about every little thing, and she wants to be there to decide which cupboard the glasses will go in, or how far the sofa will be placed from the window and how far the armchair from the sofa.

They finally get things sorted one Saturday when it’s nearly autumn. They leave the door open to let in the air, still warm with just the beginnings of a chill. Peggy stands with her hands on her hips in the middle of their living room. Steve watches from the doorway, loving the way the light filters over her hair, loving the way he already knows exactly how it will.

He steps into the room with her, selects a record and sets the needle carefully. He holds out a hand to her.

They’re practiced at this now. They’ve been to the Stork Club and danced at their wedding and done a thousand other things in between. Peggy jokes that Steve only breaks her foot once a month now, twice if she’s very lucky. But there’s no showing off today. He holds her in his arms and they sway, turning in slow circles, the music washing over them as they stand in their new home.

“The war's over, Steve. We can go home. Imagine it,” she had once said to him in a vision that had taken his breath, a vision that might never exist.

He doesn’t have to imagine it anymore.

[kristablogs]

Nature’s best toilet paper substitutes

Slippery elm leaves, Osage orange, and the large, soft leaves of the mullein plant can work as toilet paper substitutes. (Alamy Stock Photo/Dave Hurteau/)

This story originally featured on Field & Stream.

As I write this, Charmin, Cottonelle, and Downy Soft toilet paper, to name a few, are “currently unavailable” on Amazon. This verifies what you’ve always suspected: When things get scary in the US, the first thing most of us think about is pooping. The average American goes through 30 rolls of toilet paper. a year, which is kind of impressive but still not a reason to stock an entire wall of your basement with them. Seventy percent of the world’s population doesn’t even use bathroom tissue. They use a variety of things, including, in some countries, the left hand. I have no intention of covering that technique here.

People have always devoted a lot of thought to cleaning their backsides. As early as the 6th century, the Chinese scholar Yan Zhitui wrote that he preferred not to use paper containing quotations from the sages. The first task-specific toilet paper was invented in China in 1391. The sheets were initially intended for the royal family. They were big and perfumed. A 16th century French writer recommended “the neck of a goose that is well downed.” Doesn’t sound like a bad idea. On the other hand, it’s tough stockpiling goose necks.

The Romans pooped communally—just like they did most things—and used a sea sponge attached to a stick to clean themselves. Between uses, the stick was plunged into sea water. This, incidentally, is where the phrase, “the sh*tty end of the stick” comes from. The Vikings used old sheep wool and smooth pottery shards. They were hardy people. The Eskimos used two of the better toilet paper substitutes: snow in the winter and tundra moss when it was available. Snow, incidentally, is often ranked both as one the best and one of the worst alternatives by natural-bathroom-tissue experts. On the plus side, it is fantastically effective, both smooth for comfort ,and mildly abrasive for effective cleaning. What’s more, it can be custom-shaped. On the minus side, it’s really cold. It’s also wet. A wet butt is not a good thing.

In this country, until the late 1800s, it was common to find a corncob hanging from a string in the outhouse. I know, I don’t want to think about it either. Seems like it would start out too smooth and end up too rough. And, of course, it was communal. Really, I have no idea why it was so widely used.

The Sears catalog changed everything and was a quantum leap in bathroom technology. It was free, contained hundreds of soft, uncoated pages, and gave you something to read in the meantime. The sort of toilet paper we use today wasn’t commercially available until 1857. Gayett’s Medicated Paper for the Water Closet contained aloe and was marketed as being good for hemorrhoids, which were called “piles” back in the day. The patent for rolled toilet paper was granted in 1891. Fun fact for settling bar bets: The original patent drawing shows the paper unspooling from the top rather than the bottom. This is the only sensible way to do it, but some people like to quibble.

If you find yourself in a survival situation—or if you just can’t buy toilet paper anywhere right now—you’ve got options. Believe it or not, smooth stones, like river rocks, of a fairly small size are considered one of the better choices for the task. Not particularly absorbent, but they’re better than a corn cob. The cones of Douglas fir trees are recommended because they are said to be comparatively soft. “Comparatively” is the key word here. A handful of grass stalks, all carefully and tightly bundled and then folded over to create a “brush” is another popular alternative on survivalist websites. It actually looks sort of doable.

But if my ass were on the line, I’d reach for one of these six options, at least one of which is available anytime and almost anywhere in the great outdoors.

Moss

A handful of soft moss is just the thing. (Artem Makarov, Usplash.com/)

The gold standard among natural toilet papers. Think of it as green Charmin. Moss is soft, absorbent, and full of iodine, a natural germ killer. It grows all over the country, and not just on the north side of trees. Don’t be particular about species. For one, it’s extremely difficult to identify. For another, it doesn’t matter. Go for it. Make sure you have more than you think you’ll need. (Note: This should probably go without saying, but the time to go look for wiping material is before you lower your trousers. It’s a lot harder to move around afterward.)

Old man’s beard

A bunch of old man’s beard or Spanish moss gathered from tree limb will do the job. (Jael Vallee, Usplash.com/)

There are 87 kinds of old man’s beard, including Spanish Moss (sort of, it’s complicated) and similar lichens. They all grow on trees and look like tangled fishing line (but make much better, softer wiping material). It also contains usnic acid, which is effective against Streptococcus and Staphylococcus bacteria. Dried, it also makes a great fire starter. Win-win.

Lamb’s ear

Lamb’s ear leaves are soft and absorbent. (Mnsnoddy from Pixabay/)

Another standout. It’s not native but grows throughout the US. The leaves are big, quite soft, and absorbent. They are said to feel like sitting on a cloud, which may be stretching things a bit. Lamb’s ear has natural antibiotic qualities that makes it nice on your backside. It also makes a great alternative to a band-aid if you don’t have any.

Mullein

Mullein leaves are much like lamb’s ears, but usually bigger. (Nature Photographers Ltd./Alamy Stock Photo/)

Similar to Lamb’s ear and found in all 50 states. You just can’t do better than those big, soft, absorbent leaves. It’s also fairly sturdy, which reduces the chance of poking through it. Throughout history, mullein has been used by just about everybody for just about everything. Tribes in the Southwest smoked it to treat mental illness. Eastern tribes used the leaves to treat colds, bronchitis, and asthma. Choctaws used a poultice of its leaves for headaches. Early European settlers used common mullein seeds to paralyze fish. The seeds were also crushed and put into diked areas of slow water. Today, mullein leaves are occasionally used to fashion insoles for weary hikers. You can’t do that with real toilet paper.

Slippery elm

Slipper elm leaves have a somewhat rough texture that help achieve that clean feeling. (Dorling Kindersley/Alamy Stock Photo/)

Okay, these leaves are not soft and absorbent. If anything, they’re kind of like sandpaper because the hairs on them contain silica crystals. On the plus side, that is the same property that makes them effective at cleaning. Just be gentle.

Osage orange

The crevices and bumps of the young Osage orange fruit aid in removal. (Zoonar GMBH/Alamy Stock Photo/)

It’s said to be one of the best butt wipes ever, but only during a small window of time. The mature fruit is too big to get into the relevant area; what you want is young fruit. The small crevices and bumps on its surface are said to be of the ideal texture for cleaning. You want to make sure to use undamaged fruit, because Osage orange contains a sticky sap that you really don’t want back there.

Finally, a couple words of caution. If you can’t find any of the six above and decide instead to just reach for whatever leaf is handy, give it at least a cursory glance before putting it into action. Most will be fine, but you’ll want to stay away from anything on this list.

Also, wash your hands. I know you are already doing a lot of that lately, but fecal bacteria is a major cause of backcountry nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting. There’s only one right way to do it, assuming you’ve got a companion. After you’re done, have someone squirt some water and some soap into your hands. Your contaminated hands shouldn’t touch anything. Wash thoroughly. Then, you can get back to scouring the internet for toilet paper.

[scootoaster]

Nature’s best toilet paper substitutes

Slippery elm leaves, Osage orange, and the large, soft leaves of the mullein plant can work as toilet paper substitutes. (Alamy Stock Photo/Dave Hurteau/)

This story originally featured on Field & Stream.

As I write this, Charmin, Cottonelle, and Downy Soft toilet paper, to name a few, are “currently unavailable” on Amazon. This verifies what you’ve always suspected: When things get scary in the US, the first thing most of us think about is pooping. The average American goes through 30 rolls of toilet paper. a year, which is kind of impressive but still not a reason to stock an entire wall of your basement with them. Seventy percent of the world’s population doesn’t even use bathroom tissue. They use a variety of things, including, in some countries, the left hand. I have no intention of covering that technique here.

People have always devoted a lot of thought to cleaning their backsides. As early as the 6th century, the Chinese scholar Yan Zhitui wrote that he preferred not to use paper containing quotations from the sages. The first task-specific toilet paper was invented in China in 1391. The sheets were initially intended for the royal family. They were big and perfumed. A 16th century French writer recommended “the neck of a goose that is well downed.” Doesn’t sound like a bad idea. On the other hand, it’s tough stockpiling goose necks.

The Romans pooped communally—just like they did most things—and used a sea sponge attached to a stick to clean themselves. Between uses, the stick was plunged into sea water. This, incidentally, is where the phrase, “the sh*tty end of the stick” comes from. The Vikings used old sheep wool and smooth pottery shards. They were hardy people. The Eskimos used two of the better toilet paper substitutes: snow in the winter and tundra moss when it was available. Snow, incidentally, is often ranked both as one the best and one of the worst alternatives by natural-bathroom-tissue experts. On the plus side, it is fantastically effective, both smooth for comfort ,and mildly abrasive for effective cleaning. What’s more, it can be custom-shaped. On the minus side, it’s really cold. It’s also wet. A wet butt is not a good thing.

In this country, until the late 1800s, it was common to find a corncob hanging from a string in the outhouse. I know, I don’t want to think about it either. Seems like it would start out too smooth and end up too rough. And, of course, it was communal. Really, I have no idea why it was so widely used.

The Sears catalog changed everything and was a quantum leap in bathroom technology. It was free, contained hundreds of soft, uncoated pages, and gave you something to read in the meantime. The sort of toilet paper we use today wasn’t commercially available until 1857. Gayett’s Medicated Paper for the Water Closet contained aloe and was marketed as being good for hemorrhoids, which were called “piles” back in the day. The patent for rolled toilet paper was granted in 1891. Fun fact for settling bar bets: The original patent drawing shows the paper unspooling from the top rather than the bottom. This is the only sensible way to do it, but some people like to quibble.

If you find yourself in a survival situation—or if you just can’t buy toilet paper anywhere right now—you’ve got options. Believe it or not, smooth stones, like river rocks, of a fairly small size are considered one of the better choices for the task. Not particularly absorbent, but they’re better than a corn cob. The cones of Douglas fir trees are recommended because they are said to be comparatively soft. “Comparatively” is the key word here. A handful of grass stalks, all carefully and tightly bundled and then folded over to create a “brush” is another popular alternative on survivalist websites. It actually looks sort of doable.

But if my ass were on the line, I’d reach for one of these six options, at least one of which is available anytime and almost anywhere in the great outdoors.

Moss

A handful of soft moss is just the thing. (Artem Makarov, Usplash.com/)

The gold standard among natural toilet papers. Think of it as green Charmin. Moss is soft, absorbent, and full of iodine, a natural germ killer. It grows all over the country, and not just on the north side of trees. Don’t be particular about species. For one, it’s extremely difficult to identify. For another, it doesn’t matter. Go for it. Make sure you have more than you think you’ll need. (Note: This should probably go without saying, but the time to go look for wiping material is before you lower your trousers. It’s a lot harder to move around afterward.)

Old man’s beard

A bunch of old man’s beard or Spanish moss gathered from tree limb will do the job. (Jael Vallee, Usplash.com/)

There are 87 kinds of old man’s beard, including Spanish Moss (sort of, it’s complicated) and similar lichens. They all grow on trees and look like tangled fishing line (but make much better, softer wiping material). It also contains usnic acid, which is effective against Streptococcus and Staphylococcus bacteria. Dried, it also makes a great fire starter. Win-win.

Lamb’s ear

Lamb’s ear leaves are soft and absorbent. (Mnsnoddy from Pixabay/)

Another standout. It’s not native but grows throughout the US. The leaves are big, quite soft, and absorbent. They are said to feel like sitting on a cloud, which may be stretching things a bit. Lamb’s ear has natural antibiotic qualities that makes it nice on your backside. It also makes a great alternative to a band-aid if you don’t have any.

Mullein

Mullein leaves are much like lamb’s ears, but usually bigger. (Nature Photographers Ltd./Alamy Stock Photo/)

Similar to Lamb’s ear and found in all 50 states. You just can’t do better than those big, soft, absorbent leaves. It’s also fairly sturdy, which reduces the chance of poking through it. Throughout history, mullein has been used by just about everybody for just about everything. Tribes in the Southwest smoked it to treat mental illness. Eastern tribes used the leaves to treat colds, bronchitis, and asthma. Choctaws used a poultice of its leaves for headaches. Early European settlers used common mullein seeds to paralyze fish. The seeds were also crushed and put into diked areas of slow water. Today, mullein leaves are occasionally used to fashion insoles for weary hikers. You can’t do that with real toilet paper.

Slippery elm

Slipper elm leaves have a somewhat rough texture that help achieve that clean feeling. (Dorling Kindersley/Alamy Stock Photo/)

Okay, these leaves are not soft and absorbent. If anything, they’re kind of like sandpaper because the hairs on them contain silica crystals. On the plus side, that is the same property that makes them effective at cleaning. Just be gentle.

Osage orange

The crevices and bumps of the young Osage orange fruit aid in removal. (Zoonar GMBH/Alamy Stock Photo/)

It’s said to be one of the best butt wipes ever, but only during a small window of time. The mature fruit is too big to get into the relevant area; what you want is young fruit. The small crevices and bumps on its surface are said to be of the ideal texture for cleaning. You want to make sure to use undamaged fruit, because Osage orange contains a sticky sap that you really don’t want back there.

Finally, a couple words of caution. If you can’t find any of the six above and decide instead to just reach for whatever leaf is handy, give it at least a cursory glance before putting it into action. Most will be fine, but you’ll want to stay away from anything on this list.

Also, wash your hands. I know you are already doing a lot of that lately, but fecal bacteria is a major cause of backcountry nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting. There’s only one right way to do it, assuming you’ve got a companion. After you’re done, have someone squirt some water and some soap into your hands. Your contaminated hands shouldn’t touch anything. Wash thoroughly. Then, you can get back to scouring the internet for toilet paper.