Carol Jean the Cleanin' Machine

When I think about my childhood, and how I spent my time as a young girl, I have bittersweet memories about weekends - especially Saturdays. The huge plus was that there was no school, but there was a huge minus as well - my mom's penchant for weekend cleaning. Carol Jean seemed to love everything about it. And she attacked it with the determination of a bull fighter - putting on her cleaning dress, scrubbing the floors, cleaning out the closets, wiping down the insides of the cupboards, fridge and stove, washing the windows, sweeping out the garage, porch and sidewalk. No dust bunny was safe in her path. I, in contrast, was happy to be their friend.

Each Saturday it was my job to dust and vacuum the whole house, and being an only child, there was no room for chore negotiation.

My mom would give me a gold dust cloth that somehow magically attracted and held the dust. I vividly remember gliding it rather nonchalantly over every inch of our piano, the kidney shaped walnut and glass coffee table (if only I still had that...my mom was a 60s hipster and didn't even know it), the really, really ugly round dark Mediterranean end table with a door that held all sorts of crap (no one was hip with their 70s stuff actually in the 70s - 70s stuff only looked hip from the next century), wooden window shutters, stereo receiver, turntable, tape player, speakers, guest bed and dresser, my mom's bed, vanity and chest of drawers (her bedroom had leftover Chinese red walls with black wrought iron light fixtures, and when she finally got her way it was painted mint green), dining room table, china hutch and of course my bedroom set with its corner desk, dresser and hutch filled with collectible dolls from different countries and points of time in American history, horse figurines, bright yellow Peanuts garbage can, and other assorted important girl treasures. The frame holding my giant print of Man o' War (the horse, not the band - who even knew there was a band?) also required dusting according to Carol Jean. And that was before I even made it to the basement with the "Make Love not War" and "Tomorrow is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life" and "What If They Gave a War and Nobody Came?" wall hangings.

I hated cleaning. Hated it. And I made it known. I cannot tell you how inventive I became at trying to delay the inevitable - to no avail. To me there was just so much more to do on a weekend. Like lay around, watch TV, relax, draw, hang out with friends, think, stare into the mirror and try on all manner of outfits to prepare for the next week of school. I think my mom thought that if I just got enough practice I would come to appreciate the simple satisfaction of seeing a room, a home, transformed from disorder to order, from dusty tops to gleaming, sparkling shiny clean surfaces.

I did appreciate it, but not the subtle changes that came with weekly cleaning. It hardly seemed worth it. I preferred waiting for as long as possible until the cleaning REALLY made a difference. I could definitely appreciate that. "Wow! Doesn't that window sill look better without the pile of dead bugs?" "Hey, I found Pugsley (our pug)." "Bummer. I can't draw Snoopy in the dust anymore." "Mom, what's the big deal? Who cares how the house looks. It's only us!"

Fast forward about 35 years.

Carol Jean is still a cleanin' machine in spirit, but her body isn't cooperating. She just can't quite get at the corners like she used to, or see the layers of grease accumulating on the cabinet doors and drawers. She can't really get down on her hands and knees and scrub floors and baseboards or move the furniture, lamps, and rugs necessary to get a real deep clean. She can't reach high overhead, so a disproportionate number of stored items only make it up to the eye level shelf...and precariously sit there.

But here's where it all comes around. I find her dirty house to be a challenge...and for the past two weekends, I have cleaned it with the determination of a bull fighter. I have scrubbed her floors on my hands and knees, vacuumed every inch of her carpets, area and throw rugs, wiped down the baseboards, rearranged her furniture, tidied up her closets, wiped down her kitchen cabinets, and dusted all of her furniture - including that piano. And when I was done, I felt good. Real good. I was able to offer my mom something that I was never quite able to give her some years ago - enthusiastic, no holds barred cleaning. She sure had to wait long enough.

As I reflect on this, I'm wondering a few things myself.

Like...will my son ever tire of seeing his room littered with mounds of dirty clothes, soda cans, open bags of Fritos, Cheetos, and Doritos, empty cigar box wrappers and other assorted important guy treasures? Will he ever get the same satisfaction that I do from throwing it all in the trash, scrubbing down the surfaces and reveling in a day's worth of transformational physical work? I'm guessin' not so much.

And when he's 46, what in particular will he remember of the houses he's lived in, and what will comprise his bittersweet memories? What will come around between him and me? And what if they did give a war....