The Underbelly of Our House

From the kitchen at 828, there were three steps going down to a landing and side door. Outside was the driveway, so those three steps served as a much-used portal to our home, but usually only for those of us who lived there.

Mother didn’t necessarily like visitors coming through the side door, for it was lined with the trappings of our everyday lives: the ironing board, a mop, the broom and dust pan we used each evening after supper, and the grease-stained baker’s apron that Dad hung from a nail after work.

The Stairs Going Down, as Mom liked to call them, was a somewhat unsightly area, with its chipped gray steps and dingy painted walls. It was also dirty from the heavy traffic and from us kids stopping to grab whatever seasonal gear we needed before heading outside: a basketball, ball gloves, or the small baskets we used for picking  strawberries and raspberries along the railroad tracks that ran nearby; and, in the winter, black rubber boots and hats and gloves stored in a peach basket. I can readily recall Mother’s strained urgent voice whenever one of us approached the house and it was muddy or snowy outside: “Use the side door,” she’d say, and we would.

Occasionally, Mom would temporarily keep a box of Kotex on the basement shelf, tucked away at the back so my brothers wouldn’t see it. She’d buy the monthly menstrual pads on her weekly trip to the grocery store and put them there while my brothers helped haul the other grocery bags from the car to the kitchen. (Later, when the coast was clear, either my sister Nancy or I would scurry upstairs and put the box at the back of Mother’s bedroom closet, out of sight and hopefully out of the mind of a curious brother.

I also remember how Mother was clever in steering visitors from the side to the front door because that entrance, though not grand, was certainly clean and without clutter. When she’d hear a car pull into our graveled driveway, she’d go to the front porch and draw the guests through the front door. It wasn’t overt or awkward, but more so gracious, as she’d greet and talk to them as they made their way to the front of the house.

It’s funny how we absorb the notions of our parents, that it is good not to show the underbelly of our lives. I remember when my husband, Steve, and I were moving into our current home and I quickly threw a tablecloth on our much-used kitchen table, covering its wear and tear. Before long we had visitors, a neighbor woman with baked goods to welcome us.

My mother had been staying with us at the time, helping as we settled in to our new home. After the neighbor left, she said, “I was glad you had a tablecloth on.”

Some might think these behaviors pretentious, but I don’t. I think of them as putting our best foot forward. I know Mother would agree.

—Linda