My mother, Eleanor, died several years ago. But she still lives in my head. And I hear her voice almost daily.
Mom ran a clean ship. Yes sir, very clean. In mom’s eyes, only Godliness trumped cleanliness, but barely.
Mom had three kids living in her house (my sister, myself and dad) yet nothing ever got dirty, dusty or cluttered. We didn’t own a dishwasher when I was young, but I never saw a dish, spoon, glass or anything else in the sink or on a kitchen countertop.
Mom’s house could have served as a movie prop in ‘Leave it to Beaver’ or ‘Father Knows Best.’ When I was still quite young, young to the point that I didn’t venture into my friend’s houses much, I just assumed everyone lived like I did, along with the Cleaver’s, et.al.
For the most part, mom didn’t allow me to clean anything. I wasn’t good enough at it. And I don’t recall ever seeing my sister or dad clean anything either. Mom loved cleaning, as do I.
Mom cleaned my room, I didn’t. When I went to bed at night, I put my clothes on a chair in the corner of my bedroom and the next day when I awoke, they would be gone; two days or so after their disappearance, they would reappear, washed, pressed and hung in my closet, with care and symmetry; additional fresh clothes, for the day, would also be laid out for me to wear. Mom also tailored all my clothes to fit my frame. And this all lasted until I left home for war. Wow – talking about a turn of affairs. None of my drill instructors washed and pressed my clothes or ever told me I looked nice.
In the spirit of irony, my job assignment in Boot Camp was to wash and dry everyone else’s physical therapy attire after we worked out for several hours, in San Antonio, Texas heat in August for Pete’s sake. I did this every day except for Sunday. And these PT clothes were so ripe they could stand up unassisted.
Anyway, it seems that I too possess mom’s OCD cleanliness gene so whenever I am done cleaning something, I ask for mom’s approval. And then I hear her voice “nice job, son.”
I miss my mom. And in many ways, I’m like her. I inherited her personality, for the most part, anyway. I have many aspects of my father’s gene pool too, for better or for worse, but today we’re talking about moms, not dads.
Mom’s third highest value, just below Godliness and cleanliness was good fashion sense. My clothes not only had to be clean and pressed before leaving the house, but they also needed to be in vogue. For example, I never wore madras shirts during the paisley era, and so on.
We ate family meals together except for Breakfast and mom did all of the cooking. We ate well and mom read magazines on nutrition. So, whenever I make a nutritious meal, I hear her voice again. “Alan, I never would have guessed you would turn out to be such a wise cook – I’m proud of you, son.” And whenever I get all gussied up (her words) for a special event, I can hear her say – “you look really nice, Alan.”
I miss my mom. She possessed a pure heart. She didn’t have a mean word to say about anybody. She didn’t have a temper. She was always pleasant. She worked extremely hard. She didn’t raise her voice. She was innocent of all vices. I guess you could say, I won the mom lottery.
I think moms should rule the world. After all, us guys haven’t done a very good job at it and just think how much cleaner everything would be!
