(1993)
It
doesn’t seem fair that home video cameras weren’t invented until years after
our most hilarious family episodes had occurred. Every time I see some other
family’s boo-boos aired on national TV, I think, “If only we had had a
camcorder when Chris got everyone with the Water-Pic. Or even when George
stunned the patients in Dr. Bloom’s office or when Mrs. McCoy asked me her
famous question.”
Some
of these were one-liners, I admit. They would have to be spliced together to
make any kind of impact. But other scenes, like Mr. Hitchcock’s visit or the
night the bat got in, went on for hours. If our video camera had been running
continuously, they would have to be shown on TV as a serial.
Of
course, it might have been embarrassing to show the scenes of the Water-Pic
because we all looked as if we had a family bladder problem -- a serious one.
Chris was about 10, I believe, when he filled the Water-Pic with water, plugged
it in, set it on the bathroom counter at groin height and aimed it at the
doorway. Then he turned the switch to its strongest pulsating force.
Now
the plug that he used was one that was turned on and off by the bathroom light
switch. The Water-Pic was quiet when the light was off. But when an unsuspecting soul walked in and turned the bathroom light on --well I am sure
you can imagine what happened. Not only family members were doused, but several
guests were humiliated when I failed to check on Chris’ activities prior to the
arrival of company.
To
get the full effect of George’s question in the doctor’s office, viewers would
have to remember that it was 1959 -- an era when delicate matters were not
usually discussed in a crowded room. We were still going to a family doctor
then, rather than a pediatrician, and the waiting room was filled with adults
sitting in a very large circle.
I
settled myself for what looked like a long wait. George -- a very precocious 8
year old -- picked up the Time Magazine and started reading an article
in the medical section. After a few minutes his voice broke the silence of the
room as he addressed a little old lady across from us, who had given him a smile.
“What do you think about birth control?” he asked her. Almost simultaneously
everyone else in the room looked up from their reading material to see who was
going to reply to this question. The color rose in the lady’s cheeks. Everyone
stared at her. There was a long pause and then she stammered, “Well, I don’t
know. I guess it’s all right.”
When
I think of that woman, I am reminded in a way of dear Mrs. McCoy, a housekeeper
we had for several years when the kids were growing up. To say that Mrs. McCoy
was unsophisticated was an understatement. Her favorite vegetable was
“broccular.” She made wonderful sweet rolls and wrapped them in “alunium” foil
and always answered the phone by saying, “Heller, the Wolf residence.”
One
day, after she had been with us for several months, she said to me, “There’s
somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ to ask you.” She led me upstairs to our bathroom.
After I had taken my shower that morning, I had hung my shower cap, as I often
did, on the spigot of the bidet. She pointed to it and now she asked, “Why
do you always wear a shower hat when you are sittin’ on that thing?”
Finding
good household help in those days was a real challenge for a mother of nine.
When applicants heard the number of offspring, they either hung up the phone
immediately or never showed up for the interview.
Several
years before the reign of Mrs. McCoy -- 1965 to be exact -- I suddenly found
myself in need of a helper in early December. Because I was desperate to find
someone before the holidays, I placed an ad in our local paper immediately,
giving our phone number and the promise of good steady work in a convenient
location.
There
was no way I could have anticipated the response. Perhaps because it was close
to Christmas, every unemployed woman in the area wanted a job. The phone
started ringing in early afternoon as soon as the newspaper hit the streets,
and it kept ringing for hours and hours.
It
was a day that I’ll never forget. After lunch I put Gina and Dorie in bed for
their naps. I then got out the recipe for Hungarian goulash, something that I
had never made before. We were having a dinner guest -- Mr. Hitchcock, who had
once written a book about Hungary, so I thought the goulash would be a nice
touch. Jerry would be home at 5:30 so I planned the dinner for six.
The
goulash recipe had to be doubled for 12 of us and there were a lot of
ingredients to be cut into small pieces. I had just taken the meat out of the
refrigerator when the first call came -- a woman named Ethel. She sounded nice.
I wrote down all her statistics and gave her an appointment for 7:30 that evening when dinner would be over. Jerry, I knew, could entertain Mr. Hitchcock
while I interviewed her. The next caller, who said her name was Gookie, was
scheduled for 8 p.m. And on it went.
To
prevent each prospect from asking about the size of our family I kept up a
steady line of questions -- Name? Age? Experience? References? Do windows? (I
never mentioned the storm windows that had caused my last cleaner to quit)
Scrub floors? Have car? etc. By 2:30 I had notes on every scrap of paper I
could find. By 3:00 I wondered if I should answer the phone any more, but each time it rang I felt a new hope of finding the ideal person, i.e. one who
had been raised in a family of 15 and was likely to think that cleaning up
after 9 would be manageable.
At
3:30 I still hadn’t started the goulash. Our only downstairs phone was in the
center hall, so there was no way I could cut meat and vegetables while holding
the receiver with my shoulder.
Dorie
and Gina were just getting up from their naps and our older children were
coming in the back door from school when the front doorbell rang. I realized
frantically that Mr. Hitchcock had arrived and nothing was ready.
Now
Mr. Hitchcock was an 85 year-old man whom we had met several months before.
Dignified, well-educated and a little tottery, he had once lived in Europe,
worked in journalism and dabbled in art. A few weeks ago we had invited him to
come to dinner on what turned out to be my day of non-stop phone calls. Not
only had he accepted the invitation, he had volunteered to come early to show
George and some of our other children how to make a bas-relief with plaster of
paris. A lovely project, I had thought at the time.
Mr.
Hitchcock came in carrying a clay model of George’s profile and a large box of
plaster of paris. The only thing I could see on the box was a big warning sign
-- “Keep away from eyes.” How was I going to keep our 2, 4, and 5 year-olds
away from this hazard while I tried to make goulash and answer the phone?”
Mr.
Hitchcock set up the bas-relief project in the breakfast room while I drove
Mary to her music lesson and dropped Pat at the dentist, taking the three
youngest with me in the car. We got home to find the phone ringing, Mr.
Hitchcock looking for an apron, and Greg holding an ice bag on his head. I put
disinfectant on his cut, decided it didn’t need stitches, and gave Mr. Hitchcock
my green and white striped pinafore with the large ruffles over the shoulders.
His
project proceeded while I cut up 4 lbs of stewing beef and tried to keep the
three youngest out of the plaster of paris. He needed an old bowl, never to be
used for anything else. The phone rang. I found an old bowl in the basement. I
started to cut the green peppers. He wanted a large smooth board. The phone
rang. I found a board in the garage. The phone rang. He told me about when his
wife died. I started cutting up the four cups of onions. The phone rang -- only
this time it was male voice. I started to say that I had advertised for a woman
when I realized it was Jerry -- my husband, Jerry, who was supposed to be home
now, at 5:30.
“Where
are you? I need you right now so I can get this dinner on the stove.”
“I’m
in Williamsport. We had a problem at the store here.”
“Williamsport
-- that’s two hours away.”
“I
tried to call before, but the line’s been busy for hours. I won’t be home until
nine.”
My
heart sank. I didn’t get the big pot of goulash on the stove until almost six
o’clock and the recipe said it had to simmer for two hours. In those days there
was no microwave to hurry things up, so I set the gas at “medium” rather than
the recommended “low”.
The
bas-relief was finished long before the goulash and the kids started making
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to hold them over ‘til dinner. Between phone
calls Mr. Hitchcock told me rather forcefully that he needed a drink. I turned
the goulash up to “high,” went to the liquor cabinet in the center hall and
took out a bottle of Scotch from the top self. The phone rang again. As I was
asking my usual questions I suddenly saw a woman’s face looking in the little
window beside the front door. Could it be Ethel already -- the interview I had
scheduled for 7:30? I hung up the phone, started quickly toward the front door, and fell against the wall. Something was around my ankles. I staggered again
but managed to hold on to the open bottle of Scotch. And then I looked down. My
slip straps had broken and my slip was down at my feet. Grabbing it quickly, I
stuffed it in the hall drawer, set down the Scotch and opened the front door.
But it was too late. I knew exactly what Ethel was thinking as she ran toward
her car.
I
poured a good stiff drink for Mr. Hitchcock and we sat down in the living room.
My first prospect had quit before the interview even started. Exhausted and
discouraged, I asked the kids to serve the goulash.
“Mom,
this is stuck.”
“It
won’t come out of the pot.”
“Ugh,
this looks awful.”
They
were more than accurate in their appraisal of my goulash. It was a total
disaster.
While
Mr. Hitchcock had another drink, I opened a can of baked beans and boiled some
hot dogs. We were just sitting down to this substitute meal when Gookie -- the
8 o’clock appointment -- rang the bell.
I
was almost in a state of despair as I left Mr. Hitchcock and the kids at the
dining room table and ushered Gookie into the living room for her interview.
Then I gradually realized that my luck was changing. Gookie just might be my
ideal prospect. She was telling me she was from a family of 12, she loved
children, never smoked or drank, she couldn’t stand people who did… And then
Mr. Hitchcock staggered into the room wearing my ruffled pinafore and holding
his glass of Scotch. He stared at Gookie with obvious approval. “Thish one
looks pretty nice,” he slurped.
“He’s
a friend,” I said quickly, “He doesn’t live with us.”
But
Gookie wasn’t hearing me. I knew by the expression on her face that she had
already decided not to take the job.
