Mary (a short story) Part Three

As our visits continued, we quickly came to discover the positive, independent attitude and irrepressible sense of humor that marked our new friend.

"Mary?"

A scream, then sounds of a struggle. Then . . . gurgling.

"Mary are you all right?"

A rather breathless, "Come in! Come in! I'm here in the kitchen!"

I set my newest addition to her plant collection on the floor and the two of us quickly made our way through the inner door.

There we found our friend collapsed in a chair, head on the table, obviously convulsed with . . . emotion.

Her large, grey cat was sitting on the table beside her, poking at her hair with a soft paw.

I hurried to her side and put a hand on one shaking shoulder.

"Mary, are you all right?"

A blackened face appeared, with two bright blue eyes looking out of it.

She scrubbed at some clear, wet streaks on her cheeks.

"Oh, Mary, Frank, you're just in time!" she gasped out.

"Mary, what's wrong?"

"Whoop! Nothing - that a person with a stronger stomach than I - can't take care of!" she chuckled.

I realized that her shoulders had been shaking, not with tears as I had first imagined, but with laughter.

I stood back. "What happened? What can we do?"

Still chuckling, she scrubbed at her face, smearing the wet, teary streaks. "Well, I guess for one thing, you can get me that coal scuttle over there." Mary waved a hand, indicating the ancient metal bucket beside the stove.

Frank hurried to bring it over.

"Oh, and the broom and dustpan." Mary glanced down and, for the first time, I realized that we were standing in a light carpet of ashes.

I stepped to one side, feeling the slight crunch as my foot came down on still more debris.

"Ick," I said.

"Good word!" Mary said, "and totally appropriate."

"But Mary, what happened?"

"Well, I was working on my quilt when I heard the most awful scrabbling sound here in the kitchen."

"Scrabbling sound?" Frank said.

"I don't know how else to describe it," Mary said. "I hurried in here and realized that the sound was coming from the chimney."

"Oh, dear," I said. "A bird?"

"Yes. The screen around the chimney must have blown loose or something and a bird got in there. Poor thing. I didn't have a fire going as I had been planning on cleaning out the ashes later today, but there must have been some residual smoke or something because, as I was trying to figure out how to help it, it quit struggling and I heard it fall to the bottom of the chimney."

"Oh, the poor thing!" I said. "So did you reach into the stove to help it?"

"Well, I tried. But when I opened the door, there was no bird in sight. So I decided that maybe it was just buried in the ashes. I brought the coal scuttle and a candle and peered into the stove. I discovered that there are a series of bars across the bottom of the chimney, where it joins the stove."

She shook her head. "I put the light further in and could see . . . something lying against those bars. I reached in . . ." again her shoulder began to shake with laughter.

"Mary, what happened?"

"I grabbed what I thought was the bird's foot, thinking I'd just pull it out. But what I got was the bird's beak."

She laughed again.

"I don't know why, but it seemed so much more . . . personal . . . than a foot. I screamed and pulled my hand back, then lost my balance and landed, face-first in the ashes." Her eyes twinkled from their sooty frame. "Then all I could do was laugh. That's when you two came in."

We stared at her.

What would this marvelous, independent woman think up next?

She got to her feet. "I'd better get this cleaned up."

"Please let us do that for you!" I said.

She sat back down. "You know what? I'm going to let you," she said.

Frank and I swept the normally spotless floorboards clean, dumping the ashes into the coal scuttle and setting it back beside the stove.

The Frank grabbed a small shovel and broom from hooks on the wall and proceeded to sweep the rest of the ashes and soot from the stove, adding them to what we had collected from the floor.

Mary got up again and moved over to the counter. She picked up a small mirror and peered into it.

"Oh, my!" She traced one sooty finger across her equally sooty face, then looked up at us.

"You have to admit, this is an improvement!" she said, her eyes twinkling.

She dipped steaming water out of the reservoir attached to the side of the stove and, pouring it into a little pan in the sink, quickly washed the ashes and soot from her face, hands and arms.

Finally, looking a bit more like Mary, she dried herself on a towel.

"There. That feels better!" She turned and looked at Frank, who was just finishing with the stove.

"Oh, thank you, dear boy," she said. "You are so kind!"

Frank set the coal scuttle beside the stove and walked over to the sink to clean his hands.

Then Mary grabbed some pieces of wood from a stack beside the cupboard and quickly laid and lit a fire.

Closing the stove door, she turned and looked at me. "Well this was hardly the way to welcome my friends into my home!" she said, smiling.

"Maybe, but at least we'll never forget it," I said.

She laughed. "Let's have tea!"

"First, where can I put those ashes," Frank said.

"Oh, just leave them there. I'll tote them out later."

"No, I like to finish my chores once I start," Frank said.

Mary smiled. "Well. all right."

She moved to the doorway of one of the bedrooms and pointed. "There's a door to the outside behind that curtain," she said. "You'll find a pit for the ashes not far from the back of the house."

Frank lifted the scuttle and disappeared through the door.

"Now, you set yourself right there at the table and I'll get the tea together, dear," she said to me.

Obediently, I settled into the chair she had just vacated. We chatted while she bustled around.

By the time Frank came back through the door, carrying the now-empty bucket, she had laid everything out on a tray and was dipping water out of the reservoir into her little teapot.

"Everything's just about ready, my boy," she said. "Now you two go out into the front room and I'll follow."

The tea tasted especially good. Maybe because it contained even more love than usual.

We were sitting quietly during the drive home, each of us busy with our own thoughts.

"Do you know that Mary doesn't have a bathroom?" Frank said suddenly.

"What?"

"Bathroom. Mary doesn't have a bathroom."

"I rather guessed," I said. "I didn't see one on our initial tour and none have sprung up since then." I looked at him. "But did you just discover this? You've been all over that house, tinkering."

"Well, I just never thought about it. I never went into her bedroom, and I just sort of assumed that there must be a little one in there. You know, joined up to the kitchen or something. With a little pump . . ."

I looked at him. No plumbing in the kitchen and you thought she would have it in a bathroom?"

"I know. Silly, right? Anyways, she has an outhouse, probably built when the rest of the house was built, out behind."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's stone, like the house and really is quite nice."

"But it's still an outhouse," I said.

"Well . . . yeah."

"Not very pleasant in the winter."

"Definitely not." He looked at me. "And another thing. She has a big washtub hung against the back wall. And a scrub board."

"I didn't know you knew what a scrub board was."

Frank made a face at me. "Of course I know what a scrub board is. I've seen them played as instruments."

"Oh, that would explain everything!"

He laughed. "Anyways, I think that Mary scrubs her own clothes and takes a bath in that washtub."

"Medieval!"

"My thinking exactly!" He frowned. "The thing is, I can't help but think of what her life must have been like, living in the city with its obvious amenities. And then, when she is in the winter of her life, moving back here, were there really aren't any comforts at all."

"Well, she does appear to love it," I said, doubtfully.

"No phone. No plumbing. Fireplace and stove for heat. The only modern convenience she has is electricity, which she hardly uses." He looked at me again. "My point is - how can we help her?"

My OCD was given to me

Better Meals!

For the first twelve years of my life, 'cleanliness' and I really only had a nodding acquaintance.

I admit it.

Oh, I bathed. Whenever my Mom told me to.

And I cleaned my room/living quarters.

Again when my Mom told me.

Mom was a clean nut.

But the Christmas of my twelfth year, something happened that changed me forever.

And made me realize that I like things to be clean around me.

Really clean.

Let me explain . . .

We had been invited to the home of some good friends for dinner.

It was exciting.

Families with six kids didn't get invited out very often.

For purely logistical reasons.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Moving on . . .

We drove up and were warmly welcomed into the house.

We stepped into the entryway.

And, for the first time in my life, I noticed dirt.

The house was filthy.

I mean filthy.

You couldn't tell what colour the floor tiles were, or even if there were floor tiles. I honestly think some of them were missing, but it was hard to know.

We were led to the kitchen, where the grand feast was being prepared.

I stopped in the doorway.

Frozen.

Or stuck.

It was hard to tell the difference.

Both the counter and the table in the kitchen were generously coated in the reminder of many, many meals. And things had obviously overflowed more than a few times and dripped down the front of the cupboards to pool on the floor.

The stove was unrecognizable.

Even the walls were a hazy sort of conglomerate yellow-grey. The result of the overlapping of hundreds of filthy fingerprints, splashed whatever, and humidity.

Light was dimly provided by several bare, yellowed bulbs.

Perhaps that was a blessing.

One couldn't quite make out exactly what the rubble was, lying heaped in the far corners of the room.

And under the table.

My parents stepped carefully and cheerfully into the room, already deep in conversation with our hosts.

"Is there anything we can help with?" Mom said. This was her usual and inevitable response when entering anyone's home.

Or garden.

Or feed lot.

Huh. Speaking of feed lots. And cleanliness . . .

But I digress . . .

"Oh, no, Enes, we've got things well in hand," was her response.

Well in hand?!

I'll just keep mine in my pockets, thank you very much.

"Diane, come and help us."

Mom had noticed my hesitation.

But had somehow missed the rising green colour.

"Thanks, Mom. But I think I need to go outside for a moment."

I remember her look.

Suspicion with just a slight touch of concern.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm really not feeling very well."

She came over to me.

I remember the sound of her feet, sticking to the floor with every step.

She put a hand on my forehead.

"Hmm. You seem a little warm. Maybe you'd better join the men in the front room."

The mess went on?

I couldn't bear to venture further.

"No, I really think I'd better go outside."

I was beginning to sound more than a bit rushed.

"Do you need the bathroom, honey?" our hostess asked solicitously.

My eyes widened. I could only imagine.

"Um, no. Just some fresh air."

I bolted towards the door.

And I do mean bolted. I hardly noticed my feet sticking to the floor.

Soon, I was outside in the fresh air.

Happily sitting in the nice clean dirt.

With the family dog.

He and I knew a good thing when we found it.

Summer in a Quonset Part Five

More of the story, as told by my Mom, Enes. From her journals . . .

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four.

It takes a great deal of courage to meet the challenges in our lives without any discrimination of our fellow beings - how much more courage we need with it.

I believe our children were faced with an overload.

I certainly admired them for their determination and diplomacy. They were in constant contact with the human element and from my observation, carried on beautifully.

"Are you really living out there in the shed?"

"Why yes, we are. We love it out there. Everything is so convenient and we have lots of fresh air and no grass to cut! We can just step into the car and drive out or our friends can drive in! We only have to walk a few steps and we can pet the animals! We don't have to worry about our muddy boots, though Mom does insist that we leave them by the door. We have great times playing hide and seek among the crates and boxes and the hopping game is the best of all. That is when you hop from box to box without touching the floor. We only play that game when Mom isn't around!"

By this point, the little friend was so entranced she couldn't wait for an invitation.

"May I come and stay with you sometime?"

"Sure. You can come any time you like," was the superior reply.

And the children did come and they danced about in happy glee. They fetched and carried and made the beds. They swept the floor, washed and dried the dishes and tidied the living room.

They helped me make pies and set the table. It was a happy, carefree experience.

And they left wishing they lived in a quonset.

There were problems with the clothes washing and the baths, but somehow, everything seemed to work out.

We 'borrowed' the bathroom of a friend.

Mom's 'home away from home'.

But the twice weekly trip to the Laundromat was an experience in itself.

I never knew there were so many interesting and unusual people in the world.

They must all frequent Laundromats.

I was constantly amused, entertained or shocked.

Laundromats seem to have a way of revealing and exposing personalities.

For instance - some people are very careful with their washing. The clothes are sorted in batches as to colour and material. White with white, dark with dark, nylon fabrics and socks and overalls separate. Warm water for most fabrics and especially wash-and-wear materials. The shirts and towels were washed separately and the white shirts and under clothing usually went about half through the cycle before the synthetic materials were added and so on.

Very particular.

Then there was the careless type who threw all the clothing into the washers in reckless abandon. Lumps and tangles with no thought of colour or material. The water temperature was set on hot and the sheets and dainty under things sloshed around with the overalls and socks. This type usually relined in a corner with a package of cigarettes, a bottle of coke and a tabloid magazine.

There was obviously no communication with the bread-winner of 'clothing provider' in that household. It must have been a monumental task to provide enough money to replace all the 'shrunk up' socks, 'shredded' underwear. And TV dinners.

The Laundromat was also frequented by frustrated young fathers with baskets of dirty diapers. The rude awakening from the romantic courtship and few short months of happy wedded bliss had left its anxious furrow forever etched on their foreheads. The diapers were dumped (lumps and all) into the washers and the wastes gradually wore away in the water. If they hadn't dissolved, they were left in the washer or caught in the dryer or dried on the diaper to be peeled off at home, before the baby wore it again.

I had a pleasant conversational exchange with many men and women, young, old, or medium.

Many revealed all their family secrets with was sometimes embarrassing. I couldn't help but think that it would be convenient, sometimes, to have a little switch that would cut off anything you didn't want to hear!

One old retired gentleman would come in with his small bundle of smelly laundry and the only family he had in the whole world, a skinny red Irish setter. He would dispose of his varied assortment of clothing into the washer and then he would settle himself on a bench and look about hopefully for a willing ear. Having found one, he would unwind and unload all his experiences of the last 75 years.

Many times, I provided the 'ear' for him and often wished I had more time to listen to him. He always talked me right out the door and I always felt as if I had very rudely left in the middle of the conversation. All the way home and most of the day I would chastise myself for not giving up a little more time for the sake of the poor, lonely old man,

Several times I invited him to come out and visit but he never came.

One day, I happened in as a young mother was taking her clothing out of the drier. She had thrown her husband's wash-and-wear trousers into the washer and set the dial on 'hot'. You never saw such a wrinkled up mess in you life.

She was almost in tears. "What can I do?" she whispered.

I tried to console her. "Maybe if you washed them again in warm water, the wrinkles may come out."

They never did and her husband must have been furious with her.

Cleaning . . . And Underpants

Mom, with Chris and Jerry.
Mom's the goofy one in the middle.

Mom liked cleaning.

With six kids, one husband, assorted hired men and various other duties and hobbies, she did a lot of it.

A lot.

I think she did it in her sleep.

Certainly, she did it in ours. If we lay down on the carpet in the front room for a nap, we would be picked up and cleaned.

That's just how Mom was.

But, as with any demon cleaner, sometimes the clutter and rubble would get away from her.

Particularly if she was busy with a project and unable to follow us Neanderthals around, picking up and tidying after us.

I can remember two instances when this was brought hilariously to my attention.

The kids in the neighbourhood had been playing at my house.

I don't remember what we were doing, but it involved toys and games.

And mess.

After most of the kids had left, Mom came out of the kitchen and surveyed the detritus that can only be the result of many small bodies . . . having fun.

While she was standing there, Laurie, from next door, twitched her apron.

Mom looked down.

"You sure have a messy house, Mrs. String-am!"

I don't know what Mom said in response.

Probably something tactful, knowing my Mom.

But the story lost nothing in the retelling.

Another time, George and I were playing under the kitchen table.

Yes. Under.

I know. Weird.

Mom was bustling around in the business area of the room.

She opened a cupboard.

And pulled out something . . . unexpected.

"What the . . . who put this underwear in my cupboard?!"

What she was holding was actually a pair of swim trunks.

Light grey.

With sharks printed on them.

But why quibble over details.

George and I stared at them.

Then laughed uproariously.

Mom snorted, folded them neatly, and carried them to their proper home.

We never found out who left them there.

Over the years, I've made up several scenarios that would account for it.

None practical.

Or believable.

But after that, at least once a week, George and I would hide something 'underwearish' (not a real word - I made it up) in Mom's cupboard and wait for her to find it.

Then laugh ourselves silly when she did.

Okay, we were little.

Things were funnier then.

There is an addendum.

I was busy in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning.

One of the myriad duties that accompany the care and feeding of six kids and one husband.

I set a pot in the sink and turned.

"What the . . . who put these dirty socks on my cupboard?!"

I had turned into my mother!

It's a good thing.