Will Scotchgard’S End Mean Return Of Plastic Slipcovers?

Plastic slipcovers were a gift from God.

This is what my mother’s Aunt Rosie would say, beaming at the couch that she knew would remain soft beige forever - preserved like an embalmed corpse, thanks to plastic.

With 3M Co. announcing last month that it would stop making its Scotchgard stain repellents (a chemical in them has been detected throughout the environment - even in people’s blood), perhaps we’ll see a resurgence of Aunt Rosie’s petrochemical manna.

I would like to take this opportunity to stop this idea before it gets rolling.

If you ever sat on a plastic-covered couch wearing shorts on a 90-degree day, you’d know all you ever need to about the product’s drawbacks.

Plus, like velvet tiger paintings and limited-edition plates commemorating Princess Diana’s last day on Earth, plastic slipcovers may send the message that the homeowner is - oh, how does one say it? - perhaps less than sophisticated. Perhaps a lot less.

This was not always the case.

Plastic slipcovers were a miracle product of the 1950s, the same decade that gave the world other great war-technology advances, such as Tupperware, CorningWare and wash-and-wear.

“Plastic slipcovers were an insurance policy for a lot of people,” notes Frank Fazio, owner of Fazio Upholstering in South Philadelphia. “Lots of middle-income people would have them. It was a big thing.”

To understand how big, consider the housewife, circa post-war America. Back in the 1950s and early ‘60s, communism wasn’t the big worry. Dirt was. Women who should have been going to college, or running giant industries and governments, were instead relegated to the home.

These underutilized people fixated their considerable skills and energies on raising (some might say torturing) their children and fighting dirt. Housebound maniacs with clear calendars and great, howling Hoovers routed filth from every corner of every home in the country.

“Women had too much time on their hands,” agrees Philadelphia cultural anthropologist Lynn Gregory. “And the concept of home back then was that it was a castle, and once you got it, it had to be protected from germs and kids.”

It was hard, unending work.

And always - always - some filthy, rotten, unappreciative offspring would puncture happiness by dropping melted chocolate-chip cookies and spilling Kool-Aid all over the furniture.

No!!!!!

But hold on, madam, the salesman would say. Here, here comes plastic.

Oh.

Now, you could actually have a champagne-colored couch and not have to hide it. The world could appreciate the fine brocade, the richness of the fabric, and your children could be allowed to live.

“Easy maintenance,” recalls 75-year-old South Philadelphian Etta Snyder, who still prefers plastic slipcovers. “You take a damp rag, wipe the plastic, and you’re finished.”

People in my family liked plastic so much, they took to covering tables with plastic tablecloths.

We didn’t know, but these were the first virtual experiences: We were nearly sitting on the couch, we were nearly eating at the table.

Things really became fancy when different grades of plastic came out, and people would compare the varying thicknesses and qualities of their slipcovers.

As time went on, of course, problems with plastics cropped up, even in the best of homes.

You’d hear the whispers. “Not for nothin’,” someone might say, “but didn’t you notice a crack in Tessie’s sofa?”

Cracks. The only thing worse than the ripped-bandage-off-a-bloody-wound sensation of quickly getting off a plastic-covered chair while wearing shorts on a hot day was the being-attacked-by-furniture terror of sustaining cuts from shards of plastic slipcovers that tore at the seams.

There were other problems.

“Dry rot,” says Richard Pons, owner of Gilbert’s Upholstery at Frankford and Orthodox. “The plastic doesn’t breathe and completely seals the furniture, so, over the years, it dry rots from within.”

Fading, too, became a worry. “Plastic accelerates the discoloring caused by direct sunlight,” Pons says.

These days, he adds, the younger generation doesn’t want plastic slipcovers.

Maybe it’s rebellion against all those anti-dirt days. Maybe young people got one couch cut too many.

Or maybe, as 30-year slipcover man Stuart Dones of Van Nuys, Calif., says, “Plastic slipcovers were always bad.

“Always.”