Cleanliness is Next to Godliness
My grandmother loved to clean.
In the dirty 30’s
dust blew under the door,
found its way in
through poorly sealed windows.
A sagging sash
tiny cracks in the wall.
The same water
was used in order,
first bathing
then dishes, the floor.
In the dust bowl
every morsel was gritty with sand.
Walls leaned in with the wind
when it raged,
the sun
baked shingles brittle.
As if Mother Nature
had it in for her.
So years later
in her sanctuary in the city
she kept the world at bay
nature out.
Imposing order,
achieving inner peace
through pristine control.
Her vacuum cleaner was a big Electrolux.
She loved that vintage machine.
The chrome was buffed
like a brand new Buick.
Brushes lovingly combed,
half-used dust bags
fastidiously disposed of.
When I was a toddler
her assistant
I was entranced by the retractable cord —
magically whizzing
into the hidden innards,
the satisfying “thunk”
when it stopped.
Sending cats, ears back
slinking for cover.
Visitors were conscripted
to the worthy cause,
as if they were pilgrims
or penitents.
Coasters, and antimacassars,
shoes off.
Everything smelled of Windex.
Pine Sol, like incense
anointed the air.
The washroom was a surgical suite,
scrubbed, and sterilized.
The kitchen gleamed,
like a living tribute
to better hygiene.
The Frigidaire
was a white enamel altar,
defrosted by hand
each week.
No dust survived
her ministrations.
Every bug annihilated
in acts of ritual sacrifice.
She was a small woman
but as strong as her peasant ancestors.
When the world was going to hell
which it usually was
her tiny sanctum was heaven,
hermetically sealed
from contagion, dirt
disorder.
I don’t know who lives there now.
But I’d love to imagine it still exists
as it was,
a shrine to higher cleanliness.
And to a woman
who preached the dogma of germs,
denounced dirt
like a true believer.
Who was baptized in hardship,
and then went on
to piously serve her god.
The starting point of this poem was an Eleanor Wachtel interview with the Israeli writer Meir Shalev, which I heard on her CBC radio show Writers and Company.
He described his grandmother in roughly this way. The story was hilarious, and the live audience quite enjoyed it. As did I. I loved this tough old lady on the Israeli farm who adored her big American vacuum cleaner, and who was consoled by order.
Setting out, I had no idea I’d be using the religious metaphor, which runs roughshod right through the poem. But I think the utterly unintentional combination of “sanctuary” and “inner peace” in the 4th stanza gave this gift to me. And after that, I couldn’t resist torturing the metaphor to death. I can only hope it’s as much fun to read as it was to write. And anyway, as anyone who has read much of work would know, I can never resist poking fun at religion.
So the poem is in no way autobiographical. Except …except …that I think my grandmother – who was also a product of the Great Depression – had a bit of this in her as well. I know that my mother told me she was a great “germophobe”: a true believer in the science of hygiene, at a time when the germ theory of disease first became popularly understood. My mother was/is a bit of a neat freak, as well. As am I. Or was, anyway. So I suppose the sins of the grandmothers are visited upon the children. Or something like that.
If for no other reason, the poem was worth it just to get to use the archaic – but evocative – word “antimacassar”.
My favourite part is the use of all the brand names. I think it fits the character of this woman: the idea of brand loyalty, of resistance to change. And these are, after all, brands that have stood the test of time. As well, I also think these brand names add a powerful sense of authenticity to the piece. I have particular fun with “Buick”. Which seems to be a running joke in my poetry. There is just something about the old image of the Buick: the apotheosis of the bourgeois land yacht, of middle class aspiration. But I’ll say no more, and leave this my literary biographer to analyze …lol!
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