As a kid, one of the rules on weekends growing up, before being allowed outside to play ball (for those under the age of thirty, 'playing ball' back then involved physical acts that included interaction with another human and an actual ball. There were no joysticks in stoop ball, at least not in my neighborhood) or any other Saturday morning function, you had to brush your teeth and comb your hair, make sure your homework was done for Monday and make your bed.
The last part always tripped me up, because I never got it. At the end of each day, I changed into jammies (when I was old enough, no more footies! Hurrah, today I am a man!) and climbed into bed. Never saw why it made any difference if I made it the following morning or not. It wasn't like, as I've read about on some ballistic missile submarines, I was 'hot racking' (more Sailors than beds on board and since someone is always working that bed can be recycled for someone who should be sleeping).
I checked-the population in the house was relatively stable. I saw the same faces at mealtime and at bedtime. I did learn, while watching my mom manage our household that there's a difference between how a ten year old boy and a mother of a ten year old boy make the bed. The former pulls the blanket and top sheet semi-straight, puts the bedspread on and hopes it hangs down about the same on both sides. The latter strips the bed to its mattress, lets it air and completely remakes it. The only thing I never got to see was the bed inspectors who must have shown up in their Sealy-Simmons Supercharged Inspection Van right after I headed off to Bobby or Neil's house. Why else go to all the trouble, if no one ever sees it?
And if the bed inspectors weren't real, they were to my mom, and, by extension, to me. And they're not the only-real-but-not-really real folks-and all of them live in our heads. When you get the chance, look in your sock drawer--notice how neat it is. Do you fold them in half or do you roll them up? Critical concerns. Luckily my wife and I approach issues like how to fold socks in pretty much the same way--gives us one less thing to shriek about at the marriage counselor's office. I say pretty much because we disagree on how to wear socks. I, as she always says, am wrong because I wear them inside out with the smooth, finished side against the skin of my foot and the rough side against the inside of the dead cow from whose skin the shoes are made.
We have a similar disconnect with setting the table and where to place the silverware. I am right handed, but always place it on the napkin that I set to the left side of the dinner plate. She is a southpaw (why can I NOT call myself a Northpaw?), and places everything on the right side, for me, and on the left side for herself. Our two children are right handed and I'm tempted to call for a show of hands when one or both comes to visit and stays for dinner, because I love the joys that the tyranny of the majority can bring.
Of course, appeasing the sock drawer inspectors is only part of the battle-later in the day, I imagine the undergarment police show up which is why 'the unmentionables' drawer is a thing of beauty if not a joy forever. The towel shore patrol check out the main bathroom, make sure the shampoos and rinses are back in their cubbies and all towels and seat trays are returned to the upright position. The kitchen keystone cops look for dishes in the drain rack, always at least a demerit per plate or glass, and you don't want to be the one who didn't wash, rinse, dry and return the silverware to its rightful place-the 82nd Airborne could be coming through the kitchen door any moment, so every second counts.
Actually, what does count, and counts a lot, is how much of every day we fill up with rote and ritual. We always do what we've always done because it's what we've always done. It's more than 'monkey see, monkey do' (if they had the gift of speech, assuming that it is, indeed, a gift, what might they call it?). We insist the 'outside world' behave in a logical and reasoned manner but in our hearts and minds there's more than enough space for 'step on crack and break your mother's back', for pushing in the chair at your kitchen table as you get up, for closing the door when you go to the bathroom even if you live by yourself, turning on a light in the bedroom to reach for the ringing phone after dark. And when we can't put the newspaper back in order, by section, before tossing it in the recycling bin, when we have to live to cover up on the porch mailbox because we were rushing to get to work, when we have to omit part of our routine that has become our coping ritual, we have a sense of disquiet and unease. It's hard when the difference between a rut and grave is only the depth of the habit.
-bill kenny
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