What is that? I haven’t cracked myself up for awhile. I did today. Now I’m not the greatest housekeeper but I keep the important things clean. It’s not that my mother, aka Mrs. Clean, didn’t instill household cleanliness in my soul. She was the epitome of keeping a clean house.
I, on the other hand, had weekly meltdowns in my bedroom as a kid because I couldn’t leave the house on Saturday unless my room was clean. I can remember sitting on the floor glaring at the old canister vacuum cleaner and crying. That’s how much I hated cleaning. I was also eight years old.
Fast forward to my young teenage years where I developed an odd love/hate relationship with one of the neighbors. A widow lived next door. She wasn’t any ordinary widow. She drove an original aqua-colored Mustang, wintered in Florida, and rented bedrooms in her house to businessmen who worked in the area but didn’t live here.
She was a little hard of hearing and never called me by my correct name. And, of course, the manner in which she said it was highly imitable to cheeky pre-teens. Her voice was gruff and she had a tendency to curl her lip when she was speaking. She’d holler, “Beth Ann!” This summons was directly followed with a snort. It was hard to keep a straight face.
What has this to do with mirrors you may be asking? Be patient. At various times, I was hired to mow her lawn which was good-sized. I never minded mowing but tended to trot as I mowed. She complained to my mother that I ran with the mower and the grass was jagged. Ok, I slowed down. Then the grass was too long. I adjusted the mower and then it was too short. Then I was fired…three different times.
One winter I was asked to do the weekly cleaning at her house while she was in Florida. Her roomers went home for the weekends so I could clean on Saturdays. As much as I despised cleaning, the $10 weekly looked good. I was very conscious to do a good job.
Well, she arrived back in town at the end of the winter and my mother was summoned next door. The lady was outraged. She led my mother to the bathroom where she pointed in horror. My mother didn’t see anything and questioned her. She jabbed her finger at the mirror. “There are spots! Toothpaste spots! Beth Ann didn’t clean the mirror.”
My mom, even with her high standards, was my mom. She laughed. “She’s fourteen years old and was very responsible about coming every week and cleaning. Is this the only problem?” The woman nodded. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t meet your expectations. I’m sure you’ll find someone better for next year. And her name is Beth, not Beth Ann.”
My mother returned to our house. Expecting to be chastised for something, I was taken aback as my mother began to laugh. She relayed the story to me and we had quite a chuckle as I punctuated the story with an imitation of the woman saying my name. My mother looked at me and said, “I bet you’ll never forget to clean the bathroom mirror again.”
Fast forward fifty years, give or take. As I was electrically brushing my teeth this morning, I happened to glance into the mirror. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, as soon as I finished brushing and rinsing I headed to the kitchen. There I grabbed paper towels and the Windex. As always, my mom was right.
There is a ritual to it. As I’m spraying the Windex, I glare into the mirror and say, “Beth Ann.” Then I laugh like a crazy person as I wipe away the memory.
P.S. if you’re keeping score at home, my middle name is Ellen.
Stories Are For Eternity 