The State of My Manicure

We arrived at my cousin’s house yesterday and couldn’t park near the door. Her husband was cutting down a tree and limbs had fallen across the drive. He took one hand off the chainsaw to wave and we left the car up the hill and wandered toward him.

“What did the tree do wrong?” Dad asked, squinting up at what was left of it.

“It got struck by lightning, then keeps getting blown around in the storms.” Jay replied. “It just looks bad, so I decided to take it down. Cousin, Aunt and Little Cousin are at the store. They should be home soon.”

We all stood and looked at the tree. Jay raised his eyebrows at me and I shrugged.

“I think we want to help.” I suggested. “Do these limbs go somewhere?”

“I need to cut them apart first.” He said. “Then you can help. Or go inside – just hang out.”

So we stood out of the way while the remainder of the tree came down. Jay grabbed a machete and created more manageable pieces of tree. As I gathered several limbs and prepared to create a pile near where they would burn, I asked if he’d always had a gigantic knife.

“No.” He grinned. “But it’s damn cool.”

Mom, Dad and I carefully piled the leafy limbs in one section of the yard while the larger ones were cut for firewood. It was neatly stacked – big pieces on the bottom, littler ones on top – with the wood already drying for next winter. As I grew uncomfortably hot and brushed bugs, dirt and wood off my arms, I wondered at my feeling of contentment.

We work in my family – like to feel useful. It makes me more than a little uncomfortable if I’m not allowed to help clean up after dining at someone’s house. I’m good at putting leftovers away, scraping plates, washing dishes, leaving pans to soak. I’ve done it for years.

Likewise, there was no chance we’d go inside to sit while Jay dealt with moving tree pieces. We would offer advice (that’s Dad), giggle when a task goes awry (Mom and me) and pitch in to get something done.

I sometimes wonder if I present myself correctly here. It shames me to admit, but I think my years of education have made me a bit uppity. Not too much, but enough. Honestly? We’re much more casual dining than fine. Beer and soda rather than cocktails before dinner. Dad watches races while the rest of us talk. We play Pictionary, but I’m the one who’s viciously competitive, glaring and sneering, “Come on!” when someone can’t figure out that the bird-like creature is a swan, dammit. (Um, I may not be much of an artist, actually, but I do hate to lose. Someone should have guessed that one for me, and if they had, my subsequent tantrum would have been unnecessary.) We all drive relatively new cars, but they’re sensible. We know how WalMart and Target are laid out so it’s easy to find what we need. I don’t know when Brother last read a book, and though I own more books than I can adequately store, I’ll admit to a fondness for light reading rather than dense literature.

I just spent a couple hours helping Mom scrub my floors. It’s not something I do all the time, but I know how. So we talked, each of us with a sudsy sponge, and wiped baseboards then under cabinets. Listened to the sponges squeak when we rubbed quickly at splotches. Dad came to get a Pepsi and decided to mop up the mess. I’d spent time outside with him earlier. Bringing out my little ShopVac to vacuum my shamefully dirty car, then listening to a different sponge squeak as I tried to remove the bugs from my front bumper.

“If you’d do this more often,” Dad scolded as he squatted next to me and scrubbed at his section, “it wouldn’t be so hard.”

“Because they eat at your paint if you leave them too long. I know, Dad.”

For as many times as I trudged around the yard at home, picking up sticks and dragging limbs to the burn pile after storms, I also stood around our fleet of family cars while we washed them. Start with the windows, then work from the top down. That way you can rinse and the soap will slide to areas not yet washed. Never let the cars air dry either – they spot. So you get old windshield wipers or special towels to pull the water away from the paint before it dries. Look up and make sure you’re not parked under wires – no reason to make it easier to get the car dirty again.

My car is now lovely – it’s always good to have it sparkle after being neglected so long. I’m currently sprawled in a chair that could needs to be recovered and watching the light bounce off my spotless kitchen floor. My hands are a wreck – the bleach and car soap and tree limbs have certainly not left them pretty. I’m strangely proud of them – find it soothing to know that I’m capable of some labor though I often choose not to do it.

I don’t come from money, though we always had enough. I think I try to make the impression that we’re better off than we are. After all, I know certain staff at the spa where I go for massages and pedicures. Tend to stop and have my car washed rather than bringing out my bucket, sponges and hose at home. I sweep and Swiffer wet rather than crawling around my floors. I vacation on my own and with family, though the trips tend to be short and I save for them. I don't know that I could survive without my wireless internet, but my parents use a computer that's nearly 10 years old.

It may be a process for me – fitting in where I came from with where I’m trying to go. It turns out, however, that the latter might be closer to the former than I once would have thought. I'm proud of my parents - they work hard. And they've taught me how to do so as well, even to the point of having rather ugly hands.