There were families I knew growing up who had that one room NO one was allowed in. I used to call them Museum Rooms because they were restricted. All that was needed was a red velvet rope. You could look but not touch. This was the same rule they applied at the RISD museum as well that had ropes and display cases. Pam's house on Liberty St, a block away, had a mother who threatened us boys with slow death if we were caught inside her house. That made us fantasize about slinging mud on her carpets. We managed to get in once but we had to swear to Pam we wouldn't touch anything. I was surprised at what I saw. No clothing on the floor, no toys spread around and the place didn't reek of ashtray. The place was organized like a calculus equation. “Who lives like this...it's like a kind of Hell.” I thought. Her Mom's parlor looked like something out of 70's MasterPiece theatre that PBS ran.
These parlor rooms, were for showing
off your “arrival” to a bit higher middle class society. You used
them to entertain anyone higher on the ladder than you. Should the
local parish priest drop by, get out the good coffee, maybe some
Lorna Doone cookies and invite him to sit on the plastic protected
couch you got from Ethan Allen. Perhaps some Glade spray to get rid
of the stink of dog before he comes in as well.
We...my house...didn't have any such
room. In fact, all of the rooms looked like a Hollywood special
effects hurricane fan had been turned on. Our home was cluttered and
disheveled. Mind you though, there were no mushrooms growing from the
couches, no free ranging cockroaches either. We were clutterers but
not grubby pigs. There was, however, a pungent smell of Newport
cigarettes my Dad and Mom inhaled ad infinitum. This was when
cigarettes weren't vilified like they are today. I think our
ceilings were “antique bone” color from the original ceiling
white that was once applied, thanks to the tar and nicotine. No
amount of Glade was going to conceal that miasma.
As a kid, I knew I really didn't want
to invite anyone inside for a couple of reasons. One, the obvious
mess the place was and the fact I couldn't really predict what mood
my Mom would be in that day. Why give first person account fodder for
gossips? Our neighborhood was full of bored, stay-at-home Moms who
wanted the hottest slander that could be spread. And boy, did some of
them love to air everyone ELSE's dirty linen! You have to love these
self-appointed guardians of the neighborhood morality bitches who
pronounce judgment like head cheerleaders.
This untidiness changed in a hurry
after my Dad was finally installed as XO at a local bank. With that
promotion, it was my Mom, not Dad, who decided it was time to move up
into the world. Within a 6 months, she had managed to get him to buy
newer furniture, redo the kitchen, curtains and the only improvement
my Dad wanted was a circuit breaker system instead of those old fuse
boxes they originally installed in the house. Once done, my Mom was
satisfied and then sat in her usual spot at the kitchen table and
stuck up a Newport cigarette. It was maybe then I would bring other
friends over the house.
Now we were Lace Curtain Irish.
Respectable, honorable and up to snuff.
In time, we cluttered all this up too.
But it was a “tasteful” clutter mind you! Meaning? There was more
expensive junk lying about and not in it's place. You see, the floor
is really a giant shelf that many people don't utilize!
Once, after my Dad's death, we had to
have an appraiser go through our house to inspect it and I was in the
den, with an old styled balsa wood plane being pinned to the
cardboard I had laid out on the floor. The poor guy had to gingerly
step through the maze of useful junk I needed to complete it. I think
my mom had the look of “busted drug dealer” all over her face,
that kind of look you see on that TV show, COPS.
“Slattern Mom! Slattern Mom! Whatcha
gonna do when Better Homes and Gardens come for you!”
**
Today, I can be OCD at times but that's
only when I have to get things done RIGHT. No joke, I can be like
this to the point you can predict what I'll do next. HOWEVER, give
me some down time, some free latitude and all that goes right out the
window. My kitchen table is a desk for many, many projects that don't
need doing right away. Not only that, I can correctly point out which
piles of paper relate to what. It's also collated with piles of
documents I have on the couch! Dusting? Well, I'll get to it.
Vacuuming? Well, it isn't that revolting yet. This
old Behringer measurement microphone that doesn't work anymore? Well,
can't throw that OUT yet! That old tuner that also won't work right
at times but still can if I need it as a back up?
No, it must stay! Right on the living room floor with the myriad of
other audio cables I have there and that I may need in 2026!
I'm no longer lace curtain (by the way,
I need new curtains too). I was Lace for about two years but I got
over that! At this age, it's easy to get over. Who the hell do I need
to impress now?
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