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.