Column: In mother's daze for Mother's Day

I officially became an orphan in 1949. That is, I was a motherless child and by definition back then if you were without a mother, you were an orphan.

The next spring I wore a white carnation to church. Those who still had a mother wore a red or pink carnation. I became “the poor little thing” to the elderly women in our congregation.

Without the mentoring that naturally takes place between mother and daughter, that poor little thing grew into an inept young woman. In my quest to find out just what it meant to be a young wife and mother I watched the tiny TV we bought in the early ’50s and I studied the mothers of the sitcoms of the  ’50s and  ’60s.

Jane Wyatt never argued the point that father knows best, sweet-tempered June Lockhart and her little boy, and non-shedding Lassie always resolved their issues by the end of each show. Barbara Billingsly, or better known as Mrs. Cleaver, kept her home and family in shipshape condition wearing an ever-present apron. Even Aunt Bea knew her role.

I approached family life in the manner of “I Love Lucy.” No matter how hard I tried, things never went smoothly. To this day, my culinary creations are fodder for family reunion stories.

The grandchildren love hearing about the first creamed carrots I served. I sliced raw carrots and poured cream on them and when the recipe said cream the sugar and butter, what would you think that meant. They also think it is very funny that I served the Thanksgiving turkey in a praying position instead of breast up.

However, I did find my area of expertise. When I first started out on my own, I rented a room in an apartment from an Italian landlady who had a fetish for cleaning. She cleaned the halls, stairways and woodwork with a Lysol solution once a week. In her spotless apartment, she covered her overstuffed furniture with plastic doilies and her husband and children sat on the floor to watch the TV. What an act that was for me to follow. Nevertheless, I tried.

I approach housekeeping with a vengeance that my kids call my grand compulsion. I have been called the Purex queen and Mrs. Clean, but not as compliments. I killed the family fish when I failed to rinse the Purex from the fish bowl and the guinea pig did not survive his kitchen sink bubble bath. I thought the parakeets would like a shower with the kitchen spray attachment, but I was wrong.

But in defense I have to say that none of the children suffered from their annual Purex bath the night before school started each fall. Just a little bit of bleach in the water lightened up the summer tan and grey knees and elbows.

After the long Montana winters, many homemakers still do a thorough spring cleaning but for me it was my grand performance. Anything not nailed down was moved out of the house into the yard for “airing” in the strong spring winds. I added a little bleach to a soap solution and scrubbed walls and woodwork and floors. Windows were washed with vinegar water and dried squeaky clean with newspaper.

Refrigerators were not frost free. After stripping everything out of the icebox I placed pans of boiling water in there and lined the bottom with towels and shut the door. When the huge chunks of frosted ice began thumping in the icebox, I used a table knife to loosen the last bits, wiped the box down with the towels and then used the same towels to wash the floor.

Self-cleaning ovens merely meant you cleaned your own oven yourself. I painted a gel on the oven walls that was so caustic it melted away the winter’s baked-on grease and burned my skin if I came in contact with any of it.

My grandest attempt at housekeeping perfection threatened my marriage. I read that if I applied a varnish or polyurethane on the linoleum floors I would have a wax-free shine for over a year. After the children were in bed I varnished the floors up to our bedroom doors and expected them to be dry by morning. They were not.

The children had to use the bathroom and I did not want them to step onto the tacky floor. As their complaints accelerated, my husband’s patience failed and in a “Father Knows Best” move he walked across the sticky hall in his black wool socks and carried each child to the bathroom. When I moaned over his black furry footprints, he purposely stomped all over the house and then went into the kitchen to make coffee.  

What I know about mothering now, on this Mother’s Day, May 10, is:  Bleach is not always a good thing and sometimes colors fade in an unnatural way. I am happy that my children can still wear a red or pink carnation, and that is about all I am sure of.

(Carol Holoboff is a former Libby resident who now writes her column from Great Falls).