There is no such thing as boring I've decided just as I abandoned my button sorting, a task inspired by the drive to straighten the bobbins in my sewing box. These "thrilling" decisions were brought on by the completion of 3 picayune mending jobs, long put off. Mending by the fire is a cozy activity in a true New Englandy sort of way. But, as I was pulling out the orange thread on my book bag handle I'd sewn on wrong (it was all twisted) a negative switch had tripped. So, there I sat decked out in my black robes and swinging the proverbial gavel, deeming this Sunday activity totally boring. What sort of annal retentive whiles away precious time rewinding thread and dusting bobbins? Me, that's who.
For almost as long as I can remember I've had this inner organizational drive. I used to think it stemmed from growing up in an unwieldy bumbling out of control large family. The chaos that surrounded and swallowed us all up needed taming or detangling. And yet, it took awhile for this inner anal retentive to surface.
Debby my sister/other half, used to tauntingly call me a ragamuffin. I couldn't keep anything straight around or on me. My sense of style was atrocious. More often than not my pants were put on crooked (at least as seen in family pictures). I'd put a dirty striped shirt on with a pair of flowery pants with nary a care. The room I shared with Deb and Naomi was a disaster, with clothes knee deep on the floor, mostly my clothes. My hair was a mess too. The widow's peak gave me a waifish look that concerned my mom. She didn't like the fact that my bangs wouldn't bang. The only solution was, in her opinion, that they needed to be grown out. The resulting hairdo involved a Elvis like swoop that pulled my now very long bangs up and away from my forehead. It was a do that only a mother could maintain with any sort of finesse. A week to Grandma and Grandpa's house suddenly became a potential for a wild hair debacle with perhaps the potential for its cancelation! Fortunately, Grandma Hazel promised to do a hairdo intensive with the pro prior to the trip saving the day. Her efforts were valiant but, my swoop never swooped quite right all that week. There are pictures to prove it.
When did the switch flip? It may have started with my exposure to Debbie Blake's house. She lived in a classic 60s mod ranch, a wonder to behold, I thought. Her Dad was a used car salesman and everything they owned was spit spot and polished. They had a TV, a clean kitchen and immaculate counters with all the latest gadgets on top. The electric can opener was super impressive to a first grader. Or it could have been my new haircut in third grade. The Elvis locks loped and replaced by a one length bob cut smart and crisp and cleanly parted to the side. With my new cool cut, I remember wanting to be less rag taggy. Quietly wishing for more than one school dress; the one that always arrived on my birthday just in time for the start of the school year.
It wasn't a switch but a gradual thing. School decidedly brought a growing self embarrassment that crept over me like moss. I was ashamed to admit it but, I found my family embarrassing. What kind of family were we anyhow? I knew we were believers ---Christians, the right kind of Christians by the way, not like Catholics. They worshiped idols. We were a good beautiful big family. But we were odd. I could tell. For one thing there was the fact that I had no idea what my dad did. He didn't sell cars, farm, sell insurance, clean teeth or work at Goddard College. He didn't really do anything, that I knew of. I finally figured out that he was a student working on something called a thesis and it was taking him a very long time. That ended up being embarrassing too. I was sure of one thing about our family and that was the undeniable fact that we went to Church, a lot! Twice on Sunday and again on Wednesday. We were a clan practically the whole congregation. It wasn't bad. It was what we did. We also prayed and had devotions on Saturday. We listened to music, classical music, never popular music. We could tap our feet (or hum them as I used to call it) to music but not dance. We sang hymns around the piano but, not the Beatles. We played games but, not cards. We could act out stories but could not go to movies. And television, well that was sinful. They were lots of rules that kept us from sinning. We knew them all. And we were very good, I thought, at not being sinful. We believed what our parents believed and what the church told us to believe. Questioning them was not an option. And yet, deep inside, I had started to wish for more. I knew without a doubt that was sinful.
At eleven, I finally screwed up the courage to ask to have a birthday party, my first ever with friends. I pulled my mom aside and quietly begged her to clean the house before my friends came over. Somehow that very request opened the flood gates. Wanting things clean didn't mean I was rebelling against our beliefs like my older brothers had been doing. At that age, the mess bugged me more than our rigid beliefs did (that would come later). Wanting things organized and clean meant taking a little control, however limited. I didn't need to accept the mess that was us. At eleven order seemed a good place to start. After that, I couldn't wait to get out and create my own order, my own clear space so that I could think straight and find a measure of peace. At 56, I'm a believer ---in organizing. It's a good thing, a peaceful thing. Buttons, bobbins amen.
