Steamin' Mad at Dirt!
by Karen Williams | May 26, 2006 - Seminole Chronicle
Five of my cousins agreed to visit my humble abode for a gala reunion: Linda and hubby, Ken, from Oregon; Barbara from Connecticut; Rogena and her mom (my only living aunt) from Indiana; Kent, also from Indiana; and Beverly from Apollo Beach.
We planned the April event for months, eager to share family photos and anecdotes about our no-nonsense grandparents and their farm, where Kent lives now.
We would wax nostalgic about how we had nearly burst our bladders rather than visit the outdoor toilet.
We would crack jokes about our mothers, sisters and sisters-in-law who were "clean freaks," ever sweeping, scrubbing, dusting, and warning us not to make messes.
We each grew up in a household haunted by the notion that a visitor might drop by, find a less-than-immaculate house, and then say nasty things about us from one end of civilization to the other.
Newspapers couldn't be left, for a moment, lying on the floor. Toys couldn't be "dragged out" from our bedrooms to the living room. Clean dishes couldn't be left in the drainer lest someone should happen by and be utterly taken aback.
Now, I thought I had transcended such neuroticism until the Cousins' Reunion approached.
Suddenly I cared not about my daughter's schoolwork, my credit card balances, or world peace.
Attired in cleaning garb - rubber gloves, knee guards and a cap that said "Git-R-Done!" - I declared war on dirt.
My feller, Mark, will attest to my frenzy, as soon as he claws his way out of the shrink-wrap I dressed him in so he wouldn't shed skin cells on the carpet.
Into hot, sudsy water in the bathtub went the mini blinds, maxi-blinds and even paper shades (with less than perfect results). Risking life and limb, I hung over the upstairs banister till I seized the dangling light fixture and rid it of the dust of centuries.
Using toothbrushes, I scrubbed the shower until my knuckles bled.
On hands and knees, I went over the carpets with a Dustbuster, getting up close and personal with any cookie crumb or toenail clipping that tried to escape.
Finally it was time for the cousins to arrive. The dust bunnies had gone to the great Easter basket in the sky, and I had swept the front porch till there was an indent in the cement.
Then, horrified, I realized I had forgotten to clean the back porch furniture!
Frantically, I began dragging chairs and tables off the porch to the side yard where I cleaned them with a vengeance (and a hose).
Alas, as I brought the furniture back to the porch, I stubbed my toe, plunged onto the concrete, and cracked my cranium.
I lay there for a moment, wondering if I would die before the reunion and miss the goofy photos.
Then it occurred to me - I was bleeding! Fearing a horrid mess, I hopped up, grabbed a towel for my seeping wound, and cleaned the cement until it shone.
The reunion? It couldn't have gone better. One cousin's reminiscence would spark related memories from other cousins, and we laughed until our innards ached.
And when someone suggested I get medical treatment for the gash on my head, I gave an utterance that would have made our mothers deliriously proud:
"The only doctor I'll ever need is the Rug Doctor."
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Copyright 2006, Karen Williams
