R&R at the Lake Cabin

BEFORE I LEAVE

• Plan a menu and grocery list for the weekend
• Grocery shop
• Go to strip (my town’s archaic alcohol purchasing option)
• Make sure all of the lake laundry is washed, dried, folded and packed
• Pack dog food, dog treats, dog blankets, dog brushes
• Pack clothes for the lake
• Pack books, journal, magazines
• Pack laptop
• Remember camera
• Pick up movies at video store
• Gas up car
• Load car
• Pack up groceries, making sure to pack refrigerated and frozen items in cooler the final thing
• Load dogs into car (easy job – they know where we are going and can’t wait to jump in the car, as opposed to when they are going to groomer or vet – how do they know?)
• Make the one hour trip to the lake making sure to stop at Lakeway Liquor Store on the way to buy lottery ticket (I will win one day!)
• When I drive down the escarpment leave all of my “cares and woes” behind me
• Arrive at lake house

LAKE – DAY ONE (Friday evening if I’m lucky)

• Walk dogs for potty break – dogs must stay on leashes during rattlesnake season
• Open all window blinds to begin enjoying the beautiful view right away
• Unload car
• Put away groceries
• Turn on water at the water meter
• Light the propane gas water heater
• Turn on air conditioners or heaters depending on season
• Make beds with clean bed linens
• Put out clean bath towels and kitchen towels
• Put away lake clothes
• Open a beer
• Sweep away spider webs and dust from front and back porch and deck
• Spray wasp nests, if any
• Arrange deck furniture
• Open another beer
• Water plants/yard/trees
• Hang hammock
• Decide what to have for dinner
• Make beverage transition from beer to wine
• Make dinner
• Eat dinner
• Wash dishes (no dishwasher)
• Make coffee so it is ready to turn on in the morning
• Sit on deck and enjoy the view while simultaneously trying to keep dogs from chasing rabbits
• Stay on deck enjoying the view and drinking wine until it is too dark to see anything except the stars and moon
• Fall asleep on the couch while watching a movie

DAY TWO (Saturday, if I’m lucky)

• Get up early to take dogs out and then stay up (even though I’ve sworn to myself I will sleep late) because the early morning view of the lake is just too spectacular to sleep through.
• Turn on coffee pot
• Stand at back window looking at lake until coffee is ready
• Drink coffee on back deck overlooking lake
• Write for about an hour
• Read for a while
• Make breakfast (we are big eaters at the lake) or go to Marina and eat breakfast burritos and catch up on the local gossip
• Put leashes on dogs and take them for a walk
• Visit with neighbors and catch up on the local gossip
• Make lunch or go to the Marina for the best cheeseburger in the world
• Take book to hammock and fall asleep while reading
• Wake up when the sun hits me in the face
• Open beer
• Walk dogs again
• Open beer
• Decide what to have for dinner
• Open bottle of wine
• Fix dinner
• Eat dinner on the deck
• Wash dishes
• Sit on deck drinking wine until it is too dark to see anything except the stars and the moon
• Fall asleep on couch while watching either Saturday Night Live or a movie

DAY THREE (Sunday, if I’m lucky)

• Get up early to take dogs out and then stay up (even though I’ve sworn to myself that today I really will sleep late) because the early morning view of the lake is just too spectacular to sleep through
• Make coffee because I forgot to do it the night before
• Drink coffee on the deck while making a list of the things I really need to get done around the place before I have to go home this afternoon
• Make breakfast
• Eat breakfast on the deck
• Wash dishes
• Watch the Sunday Morning television show
• Sit on the deck – read, write, watch the lake
• Make lunch
• Eat lunch
• Wash dishes
• Open final “lake beer”
• Walk the dogs
• Visit with neighbors
• Sit on deck and wish I didn’t have to go home
• Have one more final “lake beer”
• Accept the fact that I have to go home
• Feel guilty because I didn't do one single thing on the list I made for myself in the morning
• Take down and put away hammock
• Strip sheets from bed/beds gather up dirty towels
• Clean bathroom
• Dust
• Vacuum
• Clean kitchen
• Wipe dog nose prints off of windows
• Pack up leftover food
• Clean out refrigerator
• Load car
• Take dogs for pre-trip potty break
• Turn off water heater, air conditioners or heaters, and lights
• Turn off water at the meter
• If it is winter put anti-freeze in the toilet
• Position deck furniture so it won’t blow away during strong winds
• Close blinds
• Forcibly put dogs in car (they don’t want to leave either)
• Lock doors
• Make the one hour drive back home

ARRIVE HOME

• Put dogs in backyard to pout
• Unload car
• Put away groceries
• Start washing sheets, towels, clothes for next trip to the lake
• Get mail and newspaper from nice neighbor
• Try to hang on to the “lake feeling” for just a little while before thoughts of going back to work on Monday morning begin to plague me

* Other things we do at the lake: cruise around in our circa 1971 boat, take long exploring walks, drive through the countryside exploring small towns, sit on the dock and pray for rain to fill the lake enough to actually have water around our dock, tend our cactus garden, mow the expanse of meadow between deck and lake on riding lawnmower, make minor and major repairs to house, have cookouts with our great lake friends, drive around at night with a spotlight and look for deer, light a fire in the chimenea, light a fire in the fire pit, bird watch, cloud watch, watch the turkey vulture ballet (awesome circling and swooping – looks choreographed), archery (husband gave me a bow, arrows and a target for Christmas one year), use the metal detector, put together jigsaw puzzles and whatever the hell else we feel like.

What's in a Name?

A friend of mine asked why my blog was called “Cleaning House, a Memoir”? I don’t really know. When I began the blog it was on a whim – just a spur of the moment idea while cruising the net and trying to avoid housework. But it is actually an appropriate title. Memoir is defined by my trusty Winston Dictionary, 1954 edition, as: 1. a record of something considered noteworthy. 2. a memorial or biography of an individual; a history written from personal experience. So, considering the definition, cleaning house in my case is certainly noteworthy and the personal experience I have had with cleaning house definitely has a history that I can trace back two generations, beginning with my maternal grandmother, Big Red.

Big Red was an independent, somewhat unconventional woman for her day. Born in 1907, educated at Catholic boarding schools, and teaching in a one-room school house by 16, she was a liberated woman before her time. She married at the almost spinsterish age of 25 and bore ten children over the next twenty years while continuing her career as a teacher. She always had help with the children and the housework. My grandmother preferred reading over washing dishes and dancing over dusting. She was also a pack-rat, a trait to which I am genetically predisposed.

My mother, the eldest of Big Reds’ ten children must have inherited the cleanliness gene from her father’s side of the family, or perhaps it was a characteristic developed out of necessity. To say my mother was a clean freak would be a gross understatement. My mother was loving and fun and spontaneous and beautiful, but she was always cleaning. Our house was always spotless. (Until we moved into a two-story house and she resigned herself to turning over the second floor to her four teenagers and rarely stepped foot above the landing – where she deposited our clean laundry and we assured her our rooms were clean, liars that we were.) Growing up with a mother who was a constant cleaner had its annoyances. I had plates and glasses rinsed, washed and put away before I finished their contents. I was roused early almost every Saturday morning of my childhood by my father’s booming voice, “You kids get up and help your mother clean this house.” Our house was clean, why did we have to dust and vacuum and scrub sinks and clean toilets? So, naturally, I rebelled. My college dorm rooms were always disaster areas. My roommates never seemed to mind; we were always too busy going to discos and frat parties to pick up our clothes or make the beds.

Things changed after I married and got my own home. I quickly learned that a clean house was a necessity. I didn’t enjoy the process, but I enjoyed the results. Having children necessitated outside help. I swore my children’s memories of me would not involve housecleaning, and I’m sure I’ve succeeded.

But that pesky pack-rat gene skipped a generation and landed squarely on me. After thirty years of marriage and amassing “stuff” I am now trying to purge. Which led to the idea for the blog one afternoon when I was creatively finding ways to avoid housework. So there, my friend, is the answer to your question. Thanks for asking – it helped me to figure it out.

Good Choice

Not cleaning today. Today was the first of the outdoor summer concert series in our downtown entertainment district. I went there instead of coming home after work to clean out the hall closet. A wise choice – good friends were there, good music and a beer.

I tried to make myself come home to clean. I am feeling a little guilty about writing a blog about cleaning house and not actually doing much cleaning. I am discovering there are so many more interesting things to do besides housework. I guess I’ve always known this – that is why I am in this predicament; my house stuffed with too much stuff.

The stuff will still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. I will have plenty of opportunities to clean house. Don’t know how many times the stars will align to create a perfect west Texas evening with cool breezes, great music, good friends and a Corona with lime at just the right degree of ice-coldness. I am so good at making choices!

Books

I actually opened the door to the hall closet today with good intentions (you know, those things that pave the road to hell). In my defense, it isn’t my fault that no progress was made, yet again, today. I blame it on books. Yes, books. The shelf I intended to clean today is full of books; books that belonged to my husband’s mother and grandfather, books that were my children’s favorites when they were young, and books that belong to me. I began looking at the titles, trying to make decisions about their fate. Then I made my first mistake – I opened one. Two hours later no book has been sent to the discard pile. I am one of those crazy people who cannot get rid of a book. Thankfully the toy closet is relatively empty; I plan to move all of the children’s books there for my potential future grandchildren. On the bright side, as soon as I get the children’s books moved out of the hall closet there will be room on the shelf for more books.

All of the Above

Cleaning house sometimes means more than the physical act of cleaning house. Sometimes it is a metaphor for ridding one’s life of other things; negative thoughts or bad attitudes or hurts or pre-conceived notions. It is also a euphemism for firing someone from a job. In my house we are experiencing all kinds of cleaning house.

My husband was recently a victim of: (a) the economy, (b) corporate greed, (c) age discrimination, (d) being one of the good guys in a sea of bastards, or (e) all of the above. I’m going with answer (e).

This leads me to the cleaning house metaphor – ridding my life of negative thoughts. I am harboring such unkind thoughts towards my husband’s former employer. Such negativity at a time when positive thinking is a must. It is very difficult to let things go, to breathe deeply and banish thoughts of meanness and revenge. Yes, I want his former company to go bankrupt. Yes, I want his former employers to wake up tomorrow with boils on buttocks. Yes, I want the whole lot of them to be arrested by the SEC for fraudulent practices. I do know that in reality none of this will happen (please, just one tiny boil outbreak), but for some reason it makes me feel better to imagine it. However, it does nothing towards focusing on the positive aspects of this life changing event. So visualize with me, if you will, a teeny-tiny broom sweeping away all of the negativity in my mind. Swoosh, there goes the anger. Swoosh, gone are the thoughts of Black Death and pestilence. Swoosh, out with ideas of arrest warrants and jail sentences. Swoosh, no more name-calling. Swoosh, well – maybe just a few boils?

Memorial Day

I am writing this from the deck of our lake house overlooking a view that is my slice of utopia. The lake is so perfect, still and blue this morning, it looks like it is made from fondant icing. The only sounds are coming from the chirping birds. I must be the only one awake at this early hour on a holiday weekend.

Last night we watched the Academy Award winning movie, Slumdog Millionaire. My serene and private morning is a sharp contrast to the teeming slums of India. When I watch a film or read a book set in a country where the people live in cruel or unjust circumstances I ask myself, “Why? Why was I born in America instead of India, or Afghanistan, or Iran, or outer Mongolia?” It is humbling to think that the place of my birth was just a cosmic crap-shoot. Who would I have become had I been born in squalor and poverty in the slums of India? How would I have survived if I had been born in Iran or any country where women have no rights? As I enjoy my perfect view today I acknowledge that, thanks to a mystical, divine plan or a freaky accident of the universe, I was born in America. I was born in a place where I was nourished and cherished and honored. I was born in a country where I had the freedom to learn and grow and become who I am today.

I am not so naïve as to think my country just happened to be a place of safety and freedom. As I enjoy my view I thank the generations of men and women who served my country. I appreciate that my beautiful lake is not ravaged by war or overrun with poverty or polluted by chemicals. I am thankful for my country and for those who protected and preserved it; and I am thankful for the throw of the dice that landed me here.

A Woman's Work is Never Done

Years ago I read an article about work. The theme was how important it is to take pride in one’s work. To take pride in a job well done was cited as the most crucial aspect of job satisfaction. The article ended by saying a woman’s work is never done, therefore, how does she feel pride or satisfaction in her work? I was a stay-at-home mom at that time and the article really struck a chord with me. I knew exactly what the author of that piece was referring to; I was living it. With two young children at home – the laundry was never done, even if I spent all day washing, there was always one more load. The house was never clean, even if I spent all day cleaning, there were always more toys to put away or little fingerprints to be washed off of something. At that time I naively reminded myself that one day the children would be grown and gone and I would have a clean house – so I enjoyed the kids, ignored the mess, and took pride in being a mother, not in being a “housewife.”

Now, that once far off day of no children at home is here and I am left wondering where is the clean house of the future I imagined? There is still another load of laundry, still another sink full of dishes, and the small fingerprints have been replaced with dogs’ nose prints and dog hair. Alas, a woman’s work is truly never done. I take no pride in that.

About the Hall Closet

Oh, the hall closet; the hall closet I (sort of) began cleaning weeks ago. The very same hall closet that tries to reach out and grab me as I walk past. The closet that whispers to me when I am trying to go to sleep, “Clean me.” The closet I am doing my damnedest to ignore.

It is spring in my town; spring in my town usually only lasts for about four days. I am trying to enjoy it while I can. So, if anyone out there in blog-land is sitting around waiting for me to write about cleaning out the hall closet – GO OUTSIDE! Go outside and enjoy the spring weather. When the mosquitoes come I will clean out the closet – until then I will be playing in the dirt and watching the dogs chase each other.

Thoughts on the Kitchen

My kitchen, my mother’s kitchen, Big Red’s kitchen, Gail’s kitchen, Susan’s kitchen, Carol’s kitchen, Debra’s kitchen, Carol Ann’s kitchen – all of the kitchens I have known (Aunt Margie’s kitchen, MaMa’s kitchen) are places where we congregate – no matter what. Even if the dens or the living rooms are well appointed – soft, cushy chairs and sofas; we still opt for the kitchen – even if we have to stand up or sit on less-than-comfortable chairs. What is it about a kitchen? Kitchens are the center of the home, the warmest place – the heart of the house. The kitchen is a place that evokes memories of other homes. I felt happy, loved, warm and safe in my mother’s kitchen and in my grandmothers’ kitchens ergo, I feel save in just about any kitchen I’ve ever been in.

My kitchen is adjacent to my family room with a breakfast bar looking into the kitchen. Whenever we have friends or family over they congregate in the kitchen. Three people can sit at the bar, but it isn’t out of the ordinary to have seven or eight or sometimes more standing in the kitchen – leaning against the countertop. On Christmas, or any time I have a big family dinner, it is difficult to get the food out because there is so much traffic in the kitchen. But it is great fun and a great complement; I love that people are so comfortable in my kitchen. It makes me happy to think that my friends and family feel happy, loved, warm and safe in my kitchen. So bring on the crowds – I will gladly scoot between my uncles while carrying a hot casserole or ask my daughter’s father-in-law to move over so I can grab more forks from the silverware drawer. It is all part of the “hostess dance” in my kitchen.

Daughter Stuff

Both of my daughters spent the weekend with me for Mother’s Day. It was the best Mother’s Day I could imagine – just hanging out with them. We seem to laugh a lot when we are together. I am so proud of the beautiful women I have had a hand in creating – thank you for a wonderful Mother’s Day and thank you for making me a mother. Love, Mom

The Faithful

Spring is the time of year that brings out the faithful. I am not talking about the lapsed Christians who return to church on Easter Sunday. I am referring to gardeners; those optimistic souls who put their faith in a tiny seed. They spend hours and dollars preparing their garden beds and purchasing seeds and bedding plants. I know this first hand - I am one of the faithful. Two weeks ago I planted green bean seeds and cucumber seeds in my backyard garden. I “cast my shadow” (to quote Farmer Roy, my garden mentor) every morning eagerly eyeing the planted bed for signs of life. The thrill upon seeing the tiny bit of green breaking through the crusty soil is enough to make anyone a believer. From the first sighting of green, things progress quickly – big leaves have unfurled from my green bean seeds and my cucumbers have multiple leaves. Soon they will flower and product fruit; all because of a little seed and a little faith.

Garden Exhaustion

Major work underway in the garden. Too tired to blog. More on this later.

My House is Better Than a Thrift Store (and cheaper, too)

Yesterday afternoon I got a phone call from Daughter #2 informing me she was on her way over with a friend to go through our closets in search of something to wear to a costume party. They had searched all of the second-hand thrift stores to no avail. I am happy to report they left here with outfits.