Take off your hat, I want to stand up.

Chapter 17: The Cleaning Lady.

Chapter 17: Cleaning Lady

The Cleaning Lady

Ev always employed a very good cleaning lady. It was important to hold sway over a clean house, germs were every where, little unseen beasties which left unchecked would lay waste to your health and general mental emolument. Generally the cleaning lady would work right along side my mom once a week and scrub the corners of the house from top to bottom. With five kids two or three dogs and a husband that worked twelve hours every day she needed help.

The kids did not really chug in to help, except you were to police your own stuff in your own area. As often as not she said, I am not going around picking up stuff after you. We took this to mean basically what it said, in simple terms if you want to keep it, then you better look after it. This was back in the day where we did not have much stuff.

Two or three times a year a care package would arrive in a large brown, neatly packaged cardboard box with my cousin Donny Stewart's clothes, shirts, pants, jean, undershirts and parkas. I tried like crazy to fit these clothes. I loved Donny Stewart, he was smart, tall, good looking with just enough mischief in his gleaming brown eyes to make it interesting, and he smoked.

He was a rebel, a teen who had swagger. I did not think to emulate his character I just thought he was cool. His clothes even smelled like him, for a time. I wore hand me downs and we were proud of these new gently used clothes. We had no shy nature, we enjoyed simple things, in more simple times.

We had two channels on our new cabinet T.V., it weighed a ton and needed to be hand polished. It was forbidden to touch the screen for fear of marking it all up. We would sit and watch the test pattern waiting in anticipation for a program to start. We watched it all, from silly shows to local kids singing and dancing in front of one camera, no music, just a bunch of kids, their parents off stage, grinning from ear to ear. Our favourites were American programs, Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin, Sonny and Cher, the Beatles, Rolling Stones and all the game shows. We loved America. You cannot get a better actor than Barney Rubble, he was like a cartoon character.

My Grandma Fulton was a crusty self aware society shaped woman of the fifties generation. She was all about appearances and social order. She defined people by how much wealth they had accumulated. What education they had attained. What they wore. How they ate their meals, mouth open, mouth closed. The car they drove. How they talked, where they were from, the accent they carried from the homeland. If they had a business of their own or worked for wages. It was a complicated structure to keep track of, I tried to show interest in her world, but it was too shallow and defined her as an unkind person.

The only time she was nice to me was when I turned ten. Her husband Earl had died, 1962 to be exact, she took me to the Dairy Queen. I could order what ever I wanted, oh boy. I saw the sign for a banana split, it had all of my favourite stuff. Three curly top marching men of ice cream, topped with; chocolate, butterscotch, strawberry, and whipped cream topping sprayed across the entire mountain peak of delight.

I would like to have a banana split. Did you say please? What? It did not occur to me, well naturally I said please. Grandma was trying her best to teach me some manners and save me from my bohemian self. I was all set.

She then challenged my choice, as only a parent or Grandparent can, she said are you sure? Do you think you can eat all of that? What she was really thinking, I do not want this sticky, gooey mess melting in my car and have sticky fingers touching the cars interior. Besides she thought there is no way he can eat all of this and then there would be left over ice cream which I paid good money.

Depression era war survivors tended to think in terms of scarcity and waste. She would save string, old wrapping paper, elastic so, pencils, simple everyday items, so to have left over ice cream was a concern.

I said yes, I wanted the banana split, my first one. The pimple faced teenager from the high school patiently worked on putting together the ice cream fantasy, delivered it at the little cubby window, granny paid, checked the change, did the sums to make sure it was correct and looked expectantly at me. I was as nervous as a cat in violin string factory, what now, she pearled at me, well, what do you say. I was mystified. I searched for the answer, can you say thank you? Oh, I looked up and said thank you to the ice cream clerk. She huffed some and then fished for the thank you to be directed toward her person, thank you Grandma, I sheepishly retorted. She would not let it go, thank you for what? In between mouthfuls, I said thank you for the ice cream treat. A snooty your welcome dear was her final thrust piercing my inept manners right through the heart.

She was right, after a few minutes I was stuffed full to the brim. I could eat no more ice cream, there was a lot left over. She indignantly had one spoonful herself, then said we could put the rest in the fridge at home for left overs later. Good, our fridge mostly held left overs. They would stay in their places, hiding in the corners, shoved to the back, with the anticipation that one day they would be freed. Some left-overs grew hair as fine as silk, others melted from the inside to the outside. Others were soft and mushy they would hit the toilet to be saved from further food humiliation. My mom's fridge held science experiments of a tall order. That ice cream would class up the fridge environment for awhile.

It was spring, mom had just driven the cleaning lady home, we climbed out of the car, entered the house, before we could take another step, Ev would holler take off your muddy shoes, I just cleaned. Fair enough, I tip toed to my room, switched on the T.V. The television was not only our nanny, it was our best friend, we loved it to no end.

To check what is up with any generation of kids, ask them this question. What shows do they enjoy watching? Evidently this will define their epoch. The Brady Bunch,

I Spy, Bonanza, at one time there were seventeen Western style shows on the tube. Once Columbo became a smash, everyone and his dog jumped on the detective mystery story band wagon. Then came horror movies, these freaked me out completely.

Ev used to love the scary movies. She would ask me to go along as she was too frightened. I was twelve, I could not go down stairs in the dark by my self. I would jump on my bed from two or three feet away just to be safe. You never know what lies in wait.

I was very suspicious of crows, even to this day I know they are up to something. Why? Two reasons really one, we describe them as a murder of crows?

The second reason was Alfred Hitchcock. He was solely responsible for scarring me out of my teenage years. He was brilliant, I often wondered what scared his socks off? He had me at, good evening. Chills would run up the back of my neck and freeze my feet to the spot. He was good. Evelyn loved him. She invited me to all the Hitchcock movies. I went, but I mostly covered my face for half the film.

After Jessie passed on, Grandpa was house cleaning challenged. His house started to smell. It had a variety of nose afflictions. Mostly it carried a smell like canned peaches and dirty socks. He also had a prostrate issue. As he grew older he did not always make it up stairs to relieve himself, so it smelled of stale urine, like a boys locker room.

Ev took it upon herself to problem solve the circumstance. She hired a part-time cleaning lady. She also arranged to outfit Grandad's house with a downstairs bathroom. This would be a good solution to a delicate issue