My mother arrived Tuesday. It makes me want to do a happy dance.
Dancing with my mother, 1976.
Dancing with my sister.
Dancing with myself.
Maybe I will. I hope your weekend brings you good things, too.
Yesterday’s post about spring cleaning reminded me of this bit of “found” humor, vintage housekeeping hints, published to my first blog several years ago. I thought it was ripe for a repost. The annotations are mine, but the quoted material is unaltered. And absolutely priceless. I wonder what the D-I-Y and homemaking blogs of today will read like tomorrow?
The contemporary Heloise, the beautiful silver-haired lady most of us recognize from the syndicated column “Hints from Heloise,” is actually the daughter of the original Heloise, who began publishing housekeeping hints in 1959. I am sure she was thoroughly delightful. The times must have been insane, as evidenced by the following gems taken from her 1961 booklet,
Heloise’s Housekeeping Hints
for HARRIED HOUSEKEEPERS!
with Love, Affection and Understanding!
On General Housekeeping:
“If you have a phobia or allergy…naturally sweep under your bed everyday.”
A phobia of what? Monsters under the bed? Or it’s a general phobia and you need to hide there?
“Keep in mind…the second wife ALWAYS has a maid!”
Note to self: ALWAYS be the second wife.
“Remember the paper sack, girls, it’s used for so many things.”
Like screaming into.
“May I remind you once again: that house will be there long after you are dead and buried. Funny, how houses outlive us!”
Ha-ha! Ha. Excuse me while I go sweep under my bed in an act of obsessive-compulsive self-soothing. And then crawl under it.
“Dig into Closets:”
“Wait until you are mad! This is the best time to clean. You will say to yoursef, ‘I have kept this dress for two years thinking that I would remake it, but I am mad today so why not throw it out?’”
Stuff your anger (in paper sacks) to save for cleaning day.
Once dug out of closets…
“you will have this thought in your mind: ‘Now I am ready in case I get sick or have a party, I will be prepared so that strange people in my kitchen won’t talk about me.’”
Sweep for phobias; dust for paranoia.
On Laundry:
“DID YOU KNOW that table cloths can be bought now in pure dacron?”
But in case you are stuck with natural fibers, Heloise offers this innovative, labor-saving alternative to ironing: hanging the laundry on a line, then blasting the wrinkles out with the garden hose and letting it drip dry.
Here is her hint for what then to do with the hosed, dry laundry:
“Put a sheet on the floor in front of the TV! This is Saturday night and the entire family will be there. Leave the clothes there…Psychologically, all the clothes that they have used during the week will be in front of their noses. Whether they are aware of it or not…they will absorb it. They are proud of that stack of clean clothes.”
If not, next Saturday night, put all the dirty clothes in front of the TV. And the dishes, too. Psychologically, this is bound to have an impact.
If not,
“A child’s little wagon is a wonderful aid if you have no one to help you.”
By “aid,” I assume she means “critical warning sign.”
“Mending Made Easy:”
“Now is the time, if you have a daughter, to teach her how to sew her own buttons on! She will love it. Why! Because daddy is there to see her show off.”
Best to have her stand in front of the TV, on the middle of the sheet piled with the laundry and the dishes.
“How to Have a Whiter Wash:”
“…add your bleach and you detergent to your hot water. If you have Pine Sol in the house, add some of that…Lysol is just as good.”
Lighter fluid, anti-freeze…anything that has a skull and cross bones on the bottle. Just toss it all in.
I appreciated this comforting aside:
“And don’t feel bad about not ironing underwear. It is an accepted fact today that not one man in a hundred whose wife has children wears ironed underwear.”
Heloise suggests that if you must, you can remove wrinkles from your husbands boxers with the garden hose set to a light sprinkle. For futher time saving, I suggest you do this while he is wearing them.
And don’t overlook that versatile household gadget, the toilet plunger! Use it to “wash mens socks and all sorts of hand washing in the kitchen sink!”
Sink? Why not right in the toilet bowl? Let the flush box do the rinsing!
Exhausted yet? Well,
“Have another cup of coffee, little laundress, and let’s get something done.”
Because everything until now was just a warm-up. I have to wonder just what the atomic age housewife’s engine was running on, especially when Heloise observes,
“Have you ever noticed how rested you feel after dinner when the dishes are done? This is the time to do some of your hard, time consuming chores.”
Such as…
“Paint Your Kitchen:”
“This is best done when your husband is home. Why? If he won’t help you at least he can see how hard you have worked!”
Passive-aggressive tactics are marvelous for producing anger to stuff for future closet cleaning sessions.
“Cleaning the Bathroom:”
“…but to save money and energy and get the best shine possible use an old washcloth slightly saturated with kerosene…the kerosene odor leaves in a few minutes.”
Best not to do this while smoking.
“Alcohol is cheap, it removes soap film and leaves no water spots. But best of all, it is usually kept in the bathroom cabinet.”
The laundry hamper is also a good place to hide it.
“THE HOUSES will be here long after we wives are dead. Why kill yourself over them? I can think of lots better ways to die!”
Interesting, because Heloise was a fan of two household chemicals in particular:
“Rubbing alcohol is the most wonderful thing invented since tranquilizers.”
Which would explain this crafty pattern for
Heloise Sack Blouse:
“For cleaning house, make a Heloise Sack Blouse from an old bath towel. Fold towel in half, sew up sides, leave opening for arms, make opening for neck. Don’t forget the pockets! Grand for housework. Needs no ironing. Cool in summer, doesn’t show water spots, etc. Towels make good shorts, too.”
Now, put on your bath towel outfit, pile all the hosed laundry onto a sheet on the living room floor, pour kerosene, rubbing alcohol, bleach, and lysol into the washing machine. Add your pure dacron tablecloths, and run.
HA-HA, EVIL HOUSE! WHO’S OUTLIVED WHO?
When I was a little girl, I loved the passage in Little House on the Prairie where Ma and the girls spring clean their cabin. I used to wish I could sleep on a mattress stuffed with clean prairie grass. The closest we get to spring cleaning is the annual gutting of out my oldest son’s room to make way for my snowbird mom, who is arriving this week from Canada.
What separates teens from little boys is the number of parts of their toys.
What separates men from boys are cordless power tools.
What separates us from savages is wire shelving.
Nana will have to make do with the old mattress stuffing, but at least one inhabitant in this house got new bedding.
We’ve had “Hermie” for almost as long as I’ve had a blog. In that time, he has accumulated some nice furniture.
And eaten a few roommates.
If he still had neighbors, they would probably describe him as a “loner.”
I describe him as “a tricked out cockroach.”
Do you “spring clean?” Is that still a thing?
One of these days, we’ll have the kind of spring break with kids that seems to be part of the American dream, the kind that comes packaged with ride tickets, meal plans, and souvenir cups. In the meantime…
…who needs a water park, when you’ve got a rainy day, and a creek just down the street?
Who needs a botanical garden, when the dogwoods are in bloom?
Who needs a roller coaster, when you’ve got cardboard, blue skies, and a grassy hill?
Who needs a pretend adventure, when you can go on the real thing?
Who needs a monorail when you can ride the flatbed cart at the garden store?
And who needs an ocean balcony, when you’ve got a front porch, a glass of wine…
…and this for a view?
Life is good. With complimentary upgrades.
It takes me a day to find my groove once the kids go back to school after a weekend. After an extended break from our usual routine, it takes at least two. Maybe three. This beautiful spring weather isn’t helping.
And an accomplice just showed with a getaway vehicle–a very fast, barely used bicycle for me to call my own.
I don’t think I’ve been on a bike in twenty years. Is it true, it all comes back to you? Like riding a bicycle?
Let’s hope.
Meantime, I’m pleased to tell you that Blogher picked up my recent post, The Book is Not the End Game for syndication over the weekend. The commentary on the original piece has been so smart and insightful. If you missed it here, why not read it and pick up the conversation over there?
More when I find my desk again, or skin my knees, whichever comes first.
We’ve had a pretty good spring break here at home. The younger boys had art camp in the mornings, the teenager got to sleep in, and I managed to 1) not eat my young and 2) not leave a single “MUST BE NICE” comment on any of my Facebook friends beach and Disney vacation photos. So, success!
I freed up my own afternoons to take the kids on a few adventures close to home. Like grass sledding at the Clinton Presidential Library, something we’d never done. With a friend in tow, and a pile of cardboard, we set off.
Ready.
Set.
Go!
Some of us got experimental…
…with one stunt…
…or another.
Not all of the experiments worked out.
It was a long walk back up the slope
and windy at the summit.
There was a lot of running after cardboard sleds that, deep down, wanted to be kites.
It was a lot of hot, thirsty work for a thrill of a few seconds.
They never got tired of it.
I could see why.
Along our dog-walking route, there is a fig tree of mythical proportion. It’s magnificent in every season, but in the spring of each year, it does this:
March 4.
March 21.
If this ever stops being miraculous to me, I’ll have overstayed my welcome on this sweet green earth.
There is always a refraction principle at work when we observe our kids, like watching fish below the surface of a clear pond. Our perspective is bent by the invisible line between the realm of adulthood and childhood. We think we see where they are, but it’s only approximate.
I watch my boys coming and going from school and play, riding bikes and hanging out with their friends. I run interference on both sides of the phone and the door and birthday party invitations. They have friends of all kinds. I don’t know if they are popular. They seem happy and well-liked.
I would like to say I don’t care about popular. It would only be half-true. I don’t care if my children are popular. I do care if they are not. I was the unpopular kid for several years in junior high, and I wouldn’t wish that experience on any child, let alone the ones I love most.
I was not friendless. Writing a memoir corrected my perspective on that. I have always had good friends. But for most of my seventh and eighth grades, I was one of the untouchables among my classmates, an outsider. I wasn’t bullied — I think we’ve become so quick to toss that word around, it verges on meaningless–but I was ostracized. I quit trying to understand why. I kept my head down, and accepted that I was all wrong.
Part way through my seventh grade year, a strange thing happened. One of the “mean girls” (I went to an all-girls Catholic school) started being kind to me. It was sudden and shocking. By “kind,” I mean she acknowledged me as human being in front of our classmates. She’d make small talk, remarking about our homework, or asking to borrow a pencil. It’s hard for me to overstate how miraculous this seemed, how out of the blue. Then one day, one of her friends shamed her in class for speaking to me.
“Talking to your girlfriend?” she snarked.
And the reprieve was over. I remember — or did I just imagine — my almost-friend looking at me with sadness and regret. God bless her. We never did become friends, but I will never forget those few days of kindness. Or the courage it took to show it.
You know, it’s so damn easy for grownups to get behind slogans, like “stand up to bullies” or “resist peer pressure.” Slap posters up all over the school, hold rallies, copy status updates, and be ready to publicly crucify any kid who falls short of absolute moral grace and courage that we ourselves can only hope to possess under pressure.
Do we think it’s that simple? Do we remember what it was like at all?
I do. I never held it against that girl for having to go back to her tribe when she was summoned. I don’t hold it against the girl who did the summoning (who, by the way, grew up to be a splendid woman with tons of character). We were children.
I finally understood that when I returned to my high school reunion several years ago as the valedictorian. There was a photo table, strewn with pictures of all my classmates through kindergarten up to our senior year, and in every one of them, we were children. In that moment, I was released. You cannot be an adult and hang onto wrongs inflicted on you as a child by another child. You can remain the wounded child and hang onto the grudge, or you can grow up and let it go. But you can’t occupy both spaces. I chose to be the grown up and let it go. You can call it forgiveness, but only inasmuch as an adult “forgives” the error of a child. I prefer to call it understanding. The putting away of childish things.
I’m remembering this today, because yesterday I overheard my son and a friend say something unkind about a kid they go to school with, a child who seems to have trouble fitting in. Needless to say, I stopped them. I don’t require my kids to be friends with anyone, or to even be nice to everyone, but I do require kindness and empathy.
I’m not sure how you ensure that, but I know for sure it takes more than taping a poster on the wall or a clicking “like” on a viral video. I think it starts with modeling. How many times have you seen a concerned parent post an anti-bullying message to Facebook, only to see them post a juicy piece of celebrity or political snark later the same day? How many parents complain about mean kids, and think nothing of their child overhearing them gossip about an acquaintance or watching a cutthroat reality competition on tv? How many of us preach respect and good sportsmanship and demonstrate the very opposite at game time?
We’re all hypocrites, if not in the above ways, then in some other. Not one of us is qualified to instruct our children in being perfect humans. But we are all qualified to show them how we keep growing.
So in addition to saying, “Don’t be mean,” I told them how I was that kid once. And that things change. The outsider might be nearer to you than you know. As near as your own mother.
I kept it about that simple, because character isn’t acquired through catchy slogans or eloquent sermons, though both have their place as reminders. Growing up is a process that takes a long time. There aren’t any words to make it shorter.
Only one of these scenes actually happened on Sunday. But Saturday was a very good day.
I made oatmeal muffins, cleaned house, then went for a stroll along the boulevard.
Got a latte and spent an hour or so looking for just the right yarn to knit a tiny hat for a brand new friend.
The yarn shop is like a 101 flavor ice cream parlor for my eyes.
Then we went to the hardware store for a new lawn mower and whipper snipper. With our young whippersnappers.
Americans call weed trimmers “weed whackers,” but I think that sounds indelicate.
Speaking of weeds…
…these boys are growing like them.
Sunday, I took the boys to the “dollar” theater to see The Adventures of TinTin. I grew up with the original comic books, and I was a little worried the movie would disappoint.
It didn’t. It was fantastic. I hope Steven Spielberg plans to do the whole series. By the way, if you ever get a chance to see the documentary “Tintin and Me,” about the life of Tintin creator Hergé, do. It was on Netflix instant for a while, but it seems to have disappeared.
The dollar theater is a movie house where you pay very little for admission to second-run releases. As I learned yesterday, they make their money at the concession counter, where the popcorn tastes like it is also on its second run.
Dinner was corned beef with new potatoes and braised cabbage. It was delicious. But I’ve decided my relationship with cabbage is complicated.
“Slippery” is an adjective that should not apply to food you don’t slurp off the half-shell.
It’s been one of those weeks where I put out more than I took in, but here are some of the good things that kept me from running on empty:
A milk and cookie date with this guy.
An hour with nothing to do but gaze at this guy.
Hanging out at the restaurant counter with my other guy.
Walking to school with this guy.
And these portraits of love, in all its variety, with all its mystery, from:
and
I hope your weekend brings you many more good things.
K.
