When my Uncle Tom decided to remodel their kitchen in 1964, it was a project that took a few years. Maybe it was only months (life moved slowly when I was a kid), but every time we'd visit, there seemed to be a tarp hanging on something or a bucket of paint on the floor just waiting to be knocked over. Toward the end of the renovation, the only part that remained in flux was a 3 ft. by 8 ft. space between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling.
My uncle and aunt were unsure what color to paint it, I think, so for a long time, that space remained naked. After a while, in some late night creativity he was known for, Uncle Tom took a thick black marker and wrote on the plaster: "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING UP HERE FOR?"
I liked his humor and I admired his boldness. My parents were the opposite. They were sticklers for getting it right as quickly as they could. In our house, that space would have been green or yellow an hour after the plaster had dried. I wanted to grow up to care less about the way things looked. I wanted to be jaunty, like my uncle.
At that, and other things, I failed miserably.
Once I was married with kids and we had settled into our own home, I wanted to be that person, comfortable in her own surroundings -- like Uncle Tom -- and 99 percent of the time I was. Who was I as a housekeeper? Maybe I would call her a slob. Too harsh? Okay. Let's say she let things go with regularity. Let's say once in a while she could pull plastic containers from the back of her refrigerator and even if there had been a cash prize waiting, could not have identified the contents. Let's say her children had to go away to college before someone told them that sheets are commonly changed once a week.
I liked that person who had a slightly dirty house on most days. I told myself other parts of life were far more important. Like my Lamaze and La Leche League cohorts, I was most fond of this little ditty: "The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow, but children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow. So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep! I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep." Was I always rocking babies? No. Could I have done a little better with the dog hair and the Cheerio crumbs on the carpet? Only when one dreaded word appeared on the horizon: company.
Company was always where I dropped every ounce of affinity I had with my Uncle Tom and became a crazy person who cared deeply what others thought of my housekeeping abilities. Once when I lived in Buffalo, my father called one afternoon and casually asked what I was doing. I told him I was having a party in a few weeks and had decided to paint the garage floor in some weird idea that this could possibly matter to anyone. When it was time for him to hand the phone to my mother, he laughed and said, "No need for a DNA test."
I like to think that over the years -- time when I've become more tempered, more reasonable -- that I've morphed into a more carefree hostess who doesn't stress over the details.
That's what I'd like to think. That's what I was telling myself last week as I readied for a buffet luncheon for twenty. As I was applying the second coat of paint to the inside of the coat closet. Gloss Pure White to be exact. When I open the closet door to put my guests' coats inside, their eyes will positively tingle with my cleanliness. It will be so bright they'll have to look away.
Uncle Tom, I really miss your joie de vivre in that moment right before my company arrives. I miss your smiling attitude that always said: "You don't like this kitchen? Well then, you can just put down your bologna sandwich, and you know where the door is." I miss you most when I get to the bathroom, my last stop before the doorbell rings. On the toilet base are a few tiny (now crystallized) yellow spots where my little grandsons have missed their marks in the last few weeks.
Uncle Tom would have gone looking for the Sharpie to shame his visitors for being judge-y. For a second I feel I've failed to live up to his legacy. But then I look back at yet another sparkling bathroom and think, "Ha. Fooled them again."
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
