Domestication

Ok, I have always been somewhat of a stickler about my laundry. Not as much the separation of white and dark clothes or the preference of a particular brand of detergent or anything petty. Mainly I just want it done. When I want to wear it I want it clean. Oh, and I hate wrinkles. It may not sound too manly, but I've been ironing my clothes since the eighth grade. But that's another story.

When I was single and washerless I went to the laundrymat. Or "coin operated laundry" as it is known technically. I hated it. Sharing a washing machine with strangers is weird, kind of like eating off the same plate. Sharing a pair of shoes. But it was a necessary evil. Gotta have clean clothes. I had a roommate once that took my aversion to another level. If his clean clothes hit the floor during folding, they went back to the dirty pile. I wasn't that bad, but I jumped for joy when I lived in an apartment with a washer and dryer . Another roommate got a matching set that was going to be thrown away after a house fire. Moving on up! Of course we smelled like we had been on a camping trip for a few weeks, but the clothes were clean. We spray painted each with tiger stripes and named them Fred and Barney. Getting off track again with college day tales.

After I was married I once again had to go to the laundrymat. Buying a washer and dryer became a priority, and soon I was washing at home. Nothing says domestic bliss like sitting for a couple of hours at the "Wash-o-Rama". But I quickly learned which one of the newlyweds was the domestic goddess. Me. I knew my bride didn't cook, but I didn't know that she suffered from a laundry disorder as well. She was a "piler". A "separator". A "wear them at least twice washing machine operator". She graciously offered to do my laundry, but I had to decline. I didn't own a wardrobe (yes men have a wardrobe even if it consists of t shirts and faded jeans) large enough to wait for each color to accumulate into a washable volume. No problem, I was used to doing my own laundry anyway and no need for another argument. She says that I get lucky washing clothes and I don't know what I'm doing anyway. "Stay away from mine" She says.

Well we continued doing separate laundry for years. I became accustomed to moving the ironing board away from the dryer so she could tumble her clothes while I ironed mine. That may have been a low blow. Then my daughter came along. Another laundry delimma. Who would wash her clothes? PJ of course jumped in and started added their clothes together. I thought this was a good idea because it would double the speed of building the mini laundry mountains. This worked okay until Taylor began school. A schedule that held you accountable for clean laundry. So to avoid an argument I began doing my daughter's laundry with mine. It was really no trouble, and as long as I was ironing, I could iron hers too. Problem solved.

Before I go any further let me state that I know I am a sucker, and yes, my wife is smarter than me. When she says "Your cooking just tastes better than mine", I cook again. When she asks Taylor if she has any clothes to throw in with hers, she knows she doesn't. She is thanking me in her own way. This is all part of being married. I know that she lives in fear of the dark sock or the red shirt looming on the bottom of the pile. The one that she claims will get me one day and ruin my clothes, or worse yet, Taylor's clothes. But it hasn't happened yet (knock wood). Then she calls me from work this morning. Taylor is on spring break and I am working from home. We are planning to go out of town for a few days and we packed last night.

"Would you do me a favor?" she asks.

"Sure, what?" I offer ready to get the vacation in progress.

"Are you washing anymore clothes? I have this one pair of blue jeans that I forgot to wash and I ....never mind...I wont need them...I...."

"Yes honey, I will wash them". Had to cut her off. I know she hates to ask this given the history of our laundry marriage. So as I dig through the separated mini mountains of her laundry looking for this "one pair of jeans" that she is in need of for the trip I wonder if I have a new job.

Friday

The alarm clock buzzes again, and after slapping it a little harder than usual, I drag out of bed. I'll thank the powers that be I'm still here in a few minutes, but it's gonna take at least one cup of coffee to really mean it. As I pour the cup it hits me that at least it is Friday. Oh, and it's Friday before spring break! I wont hear a buzzing clock for seven days. This day is getting better by the minute.

As we all three go through our morning motions, the air feels a little lighter. We are all ready to go fifteen minutes early, and as PJ walks back toward the bathroom Taylor motions me over to the breakfast table. She cuts her eyes toward her exiting mother and leans in close.
"You could pick me up a little early today". she whispers. "Before two."
I guess she is pretty sure that mom would say no and I'm her best bet for beginning the vacation an hour early. The mark.
"But you're going to be off all next week". I offer even before she finishes asking; heading her off before she can finish. Stopping her before she can get her "hopes up".
"I know". she says looking away. "I'm just excited and we wont be doing anything really important on the last day before spring break. Never mind".
Never mind. I hate that phrase. It really makes no sense because you are already "minding". But anyway, why did I instantly tell her no? 2"00-3:00 what's the difference? An hour early would be a little bonus for us all.

Well I didn't make any commitment and we headed out the door. We enjoyed our normal small talk and I dropped her off at school. As I was headed home, making the mental notes of what to include and what to omit from just another day, I thought again about the 2:00 request. I hit the brakes to allow another car into the turn lane in front of Walmart. They were starting early...oh yeah...it's Friday. And I thought of a shopping trip there a few weeks before. I was in the lawn and garden section trying to decide how many twenty cent packs of basil seeds not to buy when I saw a little boy of about five round the corner of the toy isle. He was walking very slowly, almost in stalk mode, too far from the shelf to touch anything. His eyes were large and he was scanning the shelves top to bottom. His hands were at his side and he was opening and closing them, making a fist and releasing it. Priming them and then restraing them. The picture of excitement and fear. Kid excitement. Watched my an old man with a pocket full of money and a twenty cent seed dilemma.

Finding excitement like this gets tougher the older I get. I think we all see it everyday and don't recognize it. We forget what it looks like. We hope for a check in the mail or a low power bill or a pack of twenty cent seeds, and walk right past perfect opportunities. The look on the little boy's face as he worshipped "the wall of Santa". The free stuff. Am I going to the school at 2:00 today? What do you think?

Thirteen

My wife and daughter accuse me of taking every side but their's on a regular basis.
"You should have been a lawyer" they say. ""you defend everybody".
Well I don't think this is true. I get put out with people and disappointed as much as the next guy, maybe I just don't say anything. I don't ignore it, I just try not to make the same mistake twice. But with this being said...here I go again.

I was reading a post on Facebook, made by a teenage girl, about how hard she was "trying". Her words. She basically said that a lot of kids were bad because their parents let them slide. She, unlike most, was held to a higher standard by her parents and was happy to "try hard and please". The post made me proud when I read it and I told her so. Kind of rare to hear a teenager not complaining. But the longer I have thought about this it has made me kind of sad.

I am old enough for my college transcripts to be 'in a box in the basement' somewhere at GCSU, and not online like the others. I don't know how old you have to be for this, but I qualify. Tales from the crypt. But I also remember very clearly being thirteen. That year was about 3 years long if I remember correctly, starting when I was about 11-12. I remember fun things like girlfriends and vacations, but I also remember some of the parts that were not so fun. I could list a few, but it was really just the uncertaintity of most everything. Everybody blames it on chemical changes in your adolescent body, and while I feel sure that is part of it, I think there's more. You are kind of in a time warp. You really don't fit anywhere. Some people will treat you like you're already grown, and some will treat you like you're a baby. A push-me-pull-you. Now you are sure that my transcripts are in the basement.

I hear parents tell their children all the time how lucky they are to have all the modern trappings. The old stories I heard about the barefeet and the snow and the twelve miles (uphill both ways) to school have kind of died out and been replaced by "I didn't get a cellphone until I was in college". But they are both supposed to mean the same thing; you have it easier than I did when I was a kid. Yes, it is easy to get in touch with anybody at anytime, but does that make being a teenager any easier? If you think they are lucky to have networks that program cartoons all day, try to watch a sitcom with them on network television at 8:00. You will be embarrassed if you're lucky, pissed if you're not.

I really think that being a teenager in the "information age" is tougher than being one when I was. Those poor boys on the Youtube video that's going around today. Headlines: Fat boy makes bully pay! If you haven't seen it and small kid punches a much larger kid in the face and taunts him repeatedly. The larger kid finally has enough and slams the bully to the ground. The bully gets what he deserves! But this, thanks to modern technology, is out there for the world to see. The lesson that these two boys just taught each other on a playground in small town USA is being viewed by the world. Trust me that it will have a different effect on both of them than it would have 30 years ago in obscurity. I smell a lawsuit!

I say let's cut them some slack. It is not any easier being a teenager today than it was when the wagon took me to school. Sure, they don't have to dodge buffalos and watch for indian attacks like I did, but being 13 is as hard as it ever was. Harder. You will still be disappointed, mad and clueless, but remember that they are "trying".

Love story

I have to admit I was a little nervous when my parents told me they were going to be portrayed in a play about Milledgeville.

"A play about ya'll?" I asked them on several occasions.

"Your lives..my life?"

"Well, yeah." was the usual answer that was accompanied by a downright weird look.

If this made me uneasy I can only imagine how they were feeling. What did they tell the interviewers? Anything about me? I'm pretty good now, but I wasn't heavily recruited as a choir boy.

"What did they want to know?" Take a deep breath Ande.

I wouldn't say there was much to 'hide', it's just that I wondered what would make the show and what would be on the cutting room floor. Editing can create an entirely new story. Volkswagons and peace signs. Long hair and beads. Take another breath Ande.

Well the play was not just about them. I misunderstood. They had a large part, but it included other locals as well. Some pillars of the community and some just characters. It was tasteful and the actors were great. It made me think about people and places that haven't crossed my mind in years. I thought about walking home from school in the third grade when my only concern was a neighborhood dog. I thought of my first job at a full service gas station downtown and of the people I met there. How cheap everything used to be! But it mainly made me think of my mama and daddy. Their story. You know, I think it was about just them, one of the greatest love stories of all times.

Glad to still be having birthdays

I pulled into the driveway of the little yellow house and turned off the truck. The owner was expecting me and I had, for once, arrived on time. As I walked toward the front door I noticed that the front yard was very neat and the hedges trimmed. The eaves were freshly painted and the carport swept clean around a shiny four door buick. The little house looked like one from a magazine with jonquils blooming and two cement deer resting under a large oak tree. The only thing that kept it from looking like a Norman Rockwell painting were the bars on the windows and a storm door that belonged on a bank vault.

I reached the front door and knocked. I knew somebody was home because I could smell bacon frying even with the door closed. I waited a few minutes and after no answer knocked again. After what seemed like ten minutes, I heard latches clinking and chains sliding and the door opened a few inches. Through the crack in the door and the smell of the bacon I could see the wrinkled brown face of a little old lady less than five tall. I introduced myself again and she turned and walked toward the kitchen, my invitation to come inside.

The house was just as neat on the inside as it was on the outside. The furniture and carpets were dated, but neatly arranged and very clean. As I made my way to the kitchen I glanced down at the folder in my hands to be sure I remembered her name. "You doing ok today Mrs. Madison?" I asked as I placed my notes on the table. "You sure got it smelling good in here."

That got a little smile from her as she pulled out the chair at the kitchen table and slowly sat down.

"Yeah, I'm good." she said. "Been up since 3:30 because my arta-ritus is hurtin again, but that is almost every night now. I have to sit by the stove to cook my breakfast cause my feet hurt when I stand up too long."

Most of the clients I visit are older and almost always have a long list of complaints at the ready. I halfway listened and just nodded my head as I looked over her file.

"You are the only one living here Mrs. Madison?" I asked absently, just to verify her income statement in the file.

"Yeah, just me." she mumbled. "My husband passed in 91' and my daughter lives in Texas. She got some babies, but they a long way off."

I took my flashlight from my back pocket and asked her if it was ok if I looked around a little at the work that had been done. She agreed and got up, as most clients do, to escort me through the house. As we walked through the living room I noticed too many pictures in frames on the walls and every flat surface in the home. Men standing beside women holding babies. A family smiling beside and older model, very shiny car. A young man in an Army uniform. A spray of flowers from a funeral. A portrait of Martin Luther King Jr. The same pictures with different characters that I see in most homes.

"Was your husband in the Army?" I asked, making small talk as we walked toward the bathroom.

"No." She said softly. "My son was. We lost him in Vietnam in 68'."

I looked at the Army photograph again. It was old. One of those serious looking bootcamp graduation pictures that nobody really likes. All of the pictures look old as I glance around the room. Leisure suits in some, black horn rimmed glasses in others. Big hair from the 60's and afros from the 70's. All taken in a color that reminds you of an old movie.

"Sorry to hear that." I offer as we stand there looking at the photo. "I know that was tough."

"Yeah." she said. "I wish he had been here to raise that no count boy of his. He ain't in jail now I don't think...I don't know. My daughter used to keep up with him, but she's in Texas now. Ya'll can't fix my roof, can you?" She says changing the subject.

Clients are always asking for more that we can provide and I am used to telling them we cannot. I tell her that I will look in the attic and be sure that there are no leaks.

My inspection is complete and I walk back to the table to tell her my findings. I did find a plumbing leak in the crawl space that will eventually rot her bathroom floor, but I cannot fix it for her. It is not part of the program. I hate to tell her because I know it is something she will have to pay for herself. Her reaction is muted when I tell her and all she says is she will take care of it.

"You really need to have somebody take a look at that leak." I mention again as I collect my files and prepare to leave. "It's not a hard one, probably just the wax ring on the toilet. A five dollar repair."

"I guess the man that looks after my yard can do it." she says. "But he is 80 years old and don't get around like he used to. All my folks are moved away or passed. Just me now."

This is the part of the job I hate. Little old lady living on a fixed income with nothing to spare. It would take me 15 minutes and five dollars to fix this for her, but I can't. Partly from a liability standpoint, but mainly from the slippery slope I would create by doing the repair. Do it for one and I would be expected to do it for all. The little old lady grapevine is extensive. She knows I can't help her, but she has that same look on her face that my grandmother did when I fixed things around her house. Drawing with an imaginary pencil on her palm while she is thinking. Writing it to memory.

"I wish I could fix it for you Mrs. Madison." I offer as I turn the knob to leave. "I really wish I could."

"Don't worry about it young man." she says. I'd do it myself too if I wasn't down in my back. After 86 years I have figured out ways to get things did. I used to cut that grass out there too, but it's a lot hotter than it used to be."

I hear that last one all the time. I guess it seems hotter to me too, but I always thought it was that extra 20 pounds I carry around now.

"I can't move like I used to."she says as I walk out the door. "But at least I'm still having birthdays!"

I laugh and tell her to have a good day and climb in the truck. I place my folder in the stack and lean back to buckle my seat belt. "Glad to still be having birthdays."

Family dead or gone, 86 years old with aches and pains, bars on the windows, but glad to still be having birthdays. How minior this plumbing leak must be to her. At least the bathroom is in the house. She can go, even if it is by herself now, anywhere she wants. She can ride any bus, eat at any resturant or drink from any water fountain she wishes. The bumps and bruises along the way that have often made me think the earth would cease to spin, the deaths I thought I would never get over and the ones I have left to face. They are all who I am now. A man at 48 hoping to have 86 birthdays.