Ah, the joys of spring break! I love a cool, crisp morning that advances into a sunny afternoon. I adore the permission to sleep in a little, no coffee on the front porch as I wave to the grandchildren scurrying off to school early in the morning. You know that feeling, right? Everything feels slightly discombobulated, pregnant with the possibility that nothing has to be done, yet the promise of adventure hangs in the air. Regular moments feel more meaningful, somehow. Not that a week like this doesn’t have its challenges. Every trip outside means my ears refuse to drain. My nose, on the other hand, is working overtime. We all have pollen induced scratchy coughs and sinus headaches that make nap-taking an Olympic worthy sport. With the great comes the ehh, so it seems. While the grands are bemoaning any structure to the day at all, their mother decided some chores were in order. So, every morning this week, I hear the bark of a nosy dachshund as one of the munchkins enters my bedroom door. Little footsteps make a beeline to me. A little voice says, “Hey, Didi, mom said to ask you for a chore.”
I remember the chores of my childhood, believe it or not, with wistful fondness. Since I was my mother’s only child and the only one at home, I was prone to extreme neatness. My rock collection was proudly displayed in an old Timex watch case my grandmother procured for me from the pharmacy where she worked. It was a circular blue thing made from plexiglass and plastic, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lady Elaine Fairchild’s Museum-Go-Round from The Neighborhood of Make Believe. I kept it lit up and slowly spinning, every rock wiped clean and shining like a diamond. My stuffed animal collection was arranged in whatever particular order fascination I had at the moment. Sometimes, I liked them lined up by breed. Other times by color, or height. My crocheted afghan in shades of purple was placed carefully over my old iron bed. So, what sorts of chores do you give an odd, neat child? Spoiler alert, it involved my father’s old toothbrush.
Saturdays in the 70s were for going to the mall. My mother, her sister, their mother, and both myself and my cousin, Jennifer, would pile into our Oldsmobile 88. Grandma drove a baby blue Mercury Bobcat that was too small for all of us. Aunt Karen’s Monte Carlo only had two doors, and none of the adults wanted to squish kabob into the backseat with the kids. The Olds was spacious, the chocolate brown velour seats felt nice against the backs of our legs. We would meet at my grandparents’ house at 10 am. My grandfather would inevitably slip some cash into my mom’s hand as we were piling into the car. He knew. No day at Town East Mall was complete without lunch at El Fenix. We would smell every candle at Wick’s & Sticks, sample enough summer sausage from Swiss Colony to ruin our lunch, and smell every single book at B. Dalton’s. I can smell the nostalgia from the mall from here, equal parts new red carpet and Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew. But it was what happened before we went that left a mark.
I would wake up on Saturday morning, stumble into the kitchen, and see the fate that awaited me. Sometimes, I would be tasked with plant care, which I did not like. It included dusting Crazy, the impossible to correctly identify 4 ft tall cactus my mother grew in a crock. We often used Crazy as a Christmas tree to save money. Crazy did not look good in tinsel, however. But, the most disgusting chore began with my mother walking across the room and handing me a dirty old toothbrush that once graced the molars of my father’s mouth. Baseboard cleaning days were the worst. The payoff of a post-chore mall trip, however, was compelling enough to force a smile upon my face as I scooted along the floor with a bowl of hot, soapy water and a towel, listening to my mother hum her way through her own chores, her favorite Buddy Holly 8-track playing on the living room stereo.
Yesterday’s chore was my version of a toothbrush shake-up. It involved a field trip to the cemetery to visit Aunt Chynna. The grands were hoping for another “vacuum a single rug” chore, not one this involved. But rules are rules, and I get to choose the chore. So, we drove over. We straightened. We brushed away dirt. We rehung doodads on the nearby tree. And, we walked the grounds of the cemetery picking up trash. I could feel the discontent beginning to build. Why, there were video games waiting to be played in the living room, for crying out loud. Suddenly, something caught their attention. We happened by a beautiful headstone where someone had positioned a stand holding a substantial wind chime, its melody hypnotizing us like a mermaid luring a wayward ship. My granddaughter gifted us with some 8-year-old wisdom. “This is the sound of angels. Angels are beautiful. Devils are ugly. Do you hear how beautiful that is?” School may be out for the week, but I found myself enrolled in a class on simplicity. My elementary aged professors found it necessary to educate me on how to love people properly. While El Fenix is no more, we found ourselves enjoying the next best thing, Dairy Queen Blizzards. Also, we are currently shopping for cemetery wind chimes.
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