NEATNESS COUNTS

(Disclaimer: Photo not of actual kitchen of anyone I actually know.)

I don't really have anything to say. I'm just posting to get back in the habit of posting. Once you quit, it's hard to start again.

Our ice storm is history, although almost every yard still has piles of branches which are gradually getting cut up and cleared away. Some people were without power for two weeks. Twenty-five people from our church's Hispanic ministry stayed at the church for ten days. The church power was off for almost a week, but they stayed there anyway. They lived in trailers, and apparently the church without heat was warmer than a trailer without heat.

We were even declared a federal disaster area. A very small one. Perhaps that explains why all we could get on the non-local radio news was warnings about fruit trees freezing in California.

My mother had no power for two weeks. She stayed with my grandmother. My grandmother, age ninety-something, lives in a subsidized apartment building. Some disabled people live there, but most are just really old. The average age on her hall is probably ninety.

Now, about neatness. My grandmother is a tidy person. Always has been. My mother is messy. Always has been. This leads me to believe that you're born one way or the other--that neatness is a question of nature, not nurture.

I remember visiting my grandmother's house as a kid. It wasn't a very fancy house--a small two-bedroom, one bath, on a busy expressway street. My grandmother wasn't into needlepoint or crafts or decorating schemes, so the neatness thing doesn't necessarily reflect artistic tendencies or a major nesting instinct.

But when we visited her, things were always put away. All the time. And she always did the dinner dishes immediately after dinner, every single one of them, washed, dried, and put away.

This was in direct contrast to my own (my mother's) house, where I guess that sitting down and eating something was viewed as such a time-consuming activity in itself that of course we didn't want to compound that by spending extra time doing dishes afterward. A few dishes might end up in the dishwasher, some would be piled by the sink, some would be soaking, maybe some would still be on the table--or coffee table or bedside table or wherever someone ate. If we had company, we'd wash everything at once, or at least, almost everything. That was pretty much the only time that ever happened.

I have childhood memories of the doorbell ringing unexpectedly. We didn't go straight to the door to answer it. We scurried around first, trying to hide the worst of the mess, in case whoever it was wanted to come in. The mess usually included some dirty dishes on the floor by a chair in the living room.

So, as a kid visiting Grandma's house, doing all the dishes after dinner was a new experience. My mother would send me in to the kitchen to help Grandma, and the concept of keeping at it until EVERYTHING was dry and back in place was always a bit strange. I actually found it hard to focus that long. Surely we'd leave ONE pot or pan soaking, just one? Nope.

When we visited overnight, my parents got the extra bed in the back bedroom. My grandpa slept on the couch even when we weren't there, so that's where he slept. My grandma slept in the double bed in her room, the front bedroom facing the busy street, and I slept with her.

She even slept neatly. I'd never seen the like. Now, I myself am a messy sleeper. I have to have all the covers untucked from the sides and end of the bed, and I wrap them around myself in various padding formations to ensure maximum comfort.

My grandmother slept neatly, tidily, like a corpse with a sheet over it. She would just lie there, with the covers (which were tucked in at the bottom of the bed) pulled up to her neck, and sleep that way all night. Never moved. Her method of bed-making might have had something to do with the fact that she worked as a hotel maid for years. Her bed was made like a hotel bed, and it stayed that way all night.

I had a terrible time getting to sleep at her house. I always woke up several times during the night, listening to the cars whiz by outside the window, watching headlights flash on the ceiling. Grandma's sleeping technique kept her sheets smooth and pleasant, not wrinkled and crumby like at my house (she made her bed every morning, of course) but I couldn't sleep without blankets tucked in between my knees and wrapped around my feet.

My mother, even now that she lives alone, is one of the world's messy housekeepers. I won't go into detail. The point is that when she has to stay with my grandmother--or vice versa--I think there's some stress there that neither of them actually articulates.

By the end of my mother's ice storm stay at my grandmother's apartment, it was starting to look a bit more, just a touch more, like my mother's house than my grandmother's--papers piled here and there, shoes on the living room floor. I suspect they were both relieved to have it over, although I don't know if either of them fully realizes what a neatness conflict they have.

As for my house, and whose neatness genes I inherited, it's hard to say. My mother's house drives me nuts, absolutely insane. Get that nasty greasy dishrag out of the sink, wash it out and hang it over the edge of the drainer where it can dry, for gosh sakes! Use trash bags! I was in my twenties before I realized that kitchen trash cans don't have to have old garbage and gunk permanently stuck in the bottom of them, and that if they get too gross, you can actually go out and BUY A NEW ONE. (It's only fair to point out that my mother's money habits are much more admirable and frugal than mine, and that when we die, she'll leave behind a respectable credit history and a nice savings account, and I probably won't. But by golly, I'll leave a clean trash can.)

We have six kids and more pets than anyone we know. Our house usually looks like a cyclone just went through. Still, I think I'm a neat freak at heart. When I have time, I organize closets. I throw away anything we aren't actually using. I move furniture so I can vacuum under it. I own a carpet-cleaning machine, and I love it.

I just don't have the time and energy to keep it all up all the time, amidst the chaos. So our house bounces. Sometimes you can't sit anywhere because there's stuff piled on every chair, there's two-day old popcorn scattered on the floor, the bird cages are overdue for cleaning. Sometimes I get in the mood to clean and hours later, every single thing is in its place, all is perfect. Until the kids come home from school, when it starts all over again.