The Coonridge Digest: Don’t miss the boat

Greetings from the Ridge.

Sarah Wilhitte drives me crazy.

Living in a small town a person usually gets used to the prejudices, peculiarities and peccadilloes of our neighbors, and after some time we simply accept them as we might a bunion or a drunken uncle. But I’ve yet to come up with the necessary coping techniques to cope with Sarah.

She’s a home-a-holic. Her home is not just her castle, but the very symbol of her womanhood. She’s been blessed with a husband who at their wedding altar substituted "Yes dear," for "I do," and so they’ve teamed to make their abode a showplace.

No, I’m not talking about that irritating trait of one-upsman-ship.

She’s not trying to outdo the neighbors. She’s trying to top God.

I got the call this morning:

"Freida, I wonder if you could take my turn hosting the Guild Ladies."

"You sick, Sarah?"

"Well, it’s been one of those weeks. I just don’t think I can get the house ready."

"Sarah, you could do heart surgery on your bathroom floor with no fear of contamination. You’ve got the cleanest house in town."

"Oh Freida, it’s been one of those weeks. Would you be a dear and take the meeting for me?"

I knew what was happening. Sarah was expecting guests this weekend and didn’t want the assorted shoes and slacks of the Ladies Guild to soil her holy ground. "I suppose I could. Think we could switch off for July when I’m hosting it?"

"We’ll see. My July looks pretty full." Click.

Her July is like her February and her April. Nothing but housecleaning.

Sarah Wilhitte invented the first artificial Christmas tree, I think.

She’s never let a nettle drop on her carpet. Sarah washes every dish and pan and spoon in her cabinets on a monthly schedule. Sarah lays down a strip of plastic between the shower and the bedroom so her daughters won’t drip on the hardwood floor. She has a ban on shoes. A gathering at her house looks like a geisha parlor. Dear God, she even double-bags her trash. The woman passed compulsion and impulse twenty years ago and is now charging full-blown steam into the heady land of insane obsession.

Sarah’s sanitary insanity extends beyond the walls of her Martha Stewart castle and flows out into her yard. I’ve never actually seen her dust the grass, but we’ve all heard rumors.

No, this isn’t an appeal for slovenliness or a defense for sloppy housekeeping, simply a plea for a little sanity.

While she strives to give her little ones the best of everything, they have to eat their birthday ice cream on the porch. Chocolate Easter eggs are banned in favor of coin-filled plastic orbs. She has a dining room worthy of a double spread in Good Housekeeping, but like the Tabernacle at Jerusalem, it can only be entered on high holy days.

The whole family must rise 30 minutes early in the morning in order to clean the bathroom and shower after each use. In pursuing her penchant for spring cleaning, she completely misses spring.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a slob, but last night I sat on my porch swing watching Sarah rub a bleaching compound onto the sidewalk fronting her house. I had just filled my bird feeder (Sarah doesn’t feed birds. They’re messy.), took a walk around the block, and fixed a pot of decaf in preparation for watching the sun set over the town park. I thought to myself? Who’s the happier here? Maybe it’s Sarah. I don’t know. My sidewalks will look pretty dull by comparison in tomorrow’s sunrise, but at the end of the day I’ll be able to tell you about the brilliant oranges and reds that lit last night’s sky.

I can remember going into my grandfather’s house and seeing scratch marks on the woodwork of every doorway. Grandpa kept a tidy house and these abrasions seemed out of place. When I asked him what had caused the scars in his polished wood and why he hadn’t fixed them, he smiled and said, "Your dad used to peddle his toy John Deere tractor around the house and that’s where he’d cut the corners too short. I still like lookin’ at ‘em." Sarah would have sanded and varnished away every loving memory. In her crusade to improve her ship, she’d have missed the boat.

Despite the weather forecast, spring is coming. Put down your dust rag a moment and enjoy it.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.