The 50s Housewife Experiment: Update 2

As the opening montage of The Donna Reed Show floated across my screen the other day, I realized I neglected an important scene of the ideal family life. I overlooked Donna seeing Alex off to work with a smooch on the cheek, well-wishes, and a warm smile. In order to see my husband off to work, I need to get up a little earlier in the morning, so this may become my greatest trial.

In addition to that, I came across an article that reminded me of the importance of family dinner. Traditionally, the family gathered around the table and talked about their days. Talking to each other and finding out what is going on when family members are apart happened naturally without needing to be reminded to do so. Sadly, most of us are too busy checking email, watching television, or playing games to look up and notice the people around us even at dinner time. This takes away a daily chance to connect with those around us and follow the advice to counsel together oft.

I hope your own experiments and resolutions continue to uplift you and improve the happiness of your heart and home.

[FICTION] The Gift of Surprise

Like all the best moms, I let my children watch television with me. Had I sent them outside to play while watching my favorite forensics show, we’d have never discovered the family secret.

As my son Tom’s birthday drew closer, he watched each episode more intently. Tiny gears spun behind his eyes. They stopped spinning one day as we stood in the kitchen waiting for the popcorn to finish popping. As the last kernel exploded and I reached for the handle, he cleared his throat. I paused with my hand on the handle and looked down at him.

“My birthday is coming up…” He paused to offer me his most winning grin. “And all I want is a forensics kit.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I opened the microwave and poured the popcorn into a bowl.

 

Tom didn’t repeat his request. He knew he only had to tell me once if he was only asking for one item. I scoured novelty and toy stores while the kids attended school. I opted for a cheaper kit, which included an inkpad, ten fingerprint cards, some clear tape, black powder, and a puffy brush. I added a travel container of cotton swabs with a handmade label, “DNA Swabs”.

Tom’s birthday arrived and he tore through the wrapping concealing clothes, some books, and even a new calculator. He mumbled his thanks and kept tearing. Finally, he found what he wanted. He tore off the top of the box without registering that it had already been opened and ignored my attempt at humor, pushing it aside to sort through the contents of the fingerprint kit.

In a matter of minutes, everyone in the house possessed matching ink-stained fingertips. Tom lined the fingerprint cards up on the table and scanned the room with eager, blue eyes. He turned pleading eyes toward me until I nodded consent. He stepped into the kitchen and surveyed each shiny surface in search of the perfect area to lift prints.

Powder plumed up as Tom pressed the brush firmly against the handle of the refrigerator. He grinned up into my mortified face and pushed harder. My eyes followed clumps of powder falling toward my clean kitchen floor. From there, he moved to the wooden cabinets that my father had installed against the opposite wall before I was born. As Tom collected fingerprints with the clear stickers, the rest of us watched, pulled in by his enthusiasm. Finally, he sat down at the head of the table and began evaluating his findings. He narrowed his eyes as he compared the family’s prints to the ones from the fridge, setting them down next to my fingerprint card.

“Looks like mom was the last one in the fridge.” He grinned at me.

“That explains a lot.” My husband grinned and poked me in the ribs.

“Hey.” I squealed.

“Shh. You’re breaking my concentration.” Tom shushed us.

He turned his attention to the prints from the shelves. After a couple of minutes of further inspection, he set the prints down and looked up at me. We watched each other in silence. I felt my husband John stiffen up as we waited for Tom’s report. Tom glanced back down at his evidence.

Finally, I broke the silence. “What are your findings, CSI Thomas?”

“Mom, who visited us last?” He leveled his most serious gaze on me.

“Your Aunt Martha.” I offered.

“That was weeks ago.”

“She was the last person to visit.” I shifted uncomfortably as a list of people I should have invited for dinner spilled into my head.

Tom looked down at the fingerprints again. John stepped forward to peer over his shoulder, examining the loops and whirls for a few minutes. They both turned concerned eyes on me as my husband spoke.

“Tom’s right. These prints don’t match any of ours.” His dark eyes scanned the shelves.

He stepped forward and pressed his fingers into the fine powder still clinging to the wood. The shelf slid over noiselessly to reveal a narrow doorway. I joined him in the doorway, peering into a narrow stairwell leading down under the attached garage.

“Did you know this was here?” John asked.

“No.” I peered into the dimly lit stairwell.

A single, bare, bulb illuminated the stairs from below. John and I exchanged questioning looks.

“Should we?” He asked.

“It’s our house.” I replied and placed a foot on the top step.

My husband followed me closely as we descended into the hidden basement. I marveled that it seemed to have less cobwebs than my living room. The walls were painted the same soft cream color the living room had been in my youth. As we reached the last step, my ears picked up the faint sounds of a cartoon. A soft laugh followed the sounds of someone being whacked in the head and then serenaded by the ensuing birds.

I froze, but John took one more step. He fell against the wall in his attempt to not push me through the curtain that hung in the doorway a few feet beyond the light.

The cartoon cut off abruptly. Something squeaked and groaned. Then tentative footsteps approached the curtain. The footsteps stopped and the curtain moved away from us until a stout form filled the doorway.

In the harsh light of the overhead lamp, I looked directly into my father’s eyes buried amid a much fleshier, less world-weary face. Tears formed in the corners of those pale, blue eyes as he lowered his head in shame. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t quiet enough. Tommy told me to stay quiet. He said to never let anyone but him see me.”

“Tommy? My father?”

He nodded slowly. “Your father. My brother. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I’m not scared.” I reached for a kitchen chair, pulling it out and sitting down. “But, I’m confused.”

“My name is Lohman. I’m your uncle.” He grinned at this realization and extended his hand.

Without thinking, I placed my hand in his. He wrapped his long fingers around my palm, which disappeared into his soft grip. He held my hand gently for a minute as a smile stretched across his round cheeks. He finally let go of my hand and turned his eyes back toward the faded linoleum under our feet.

He glanced back up at me shyly. “Do I have to go now?”

“Go?” I turned to John as feelings of my connection to this man flowed through me.

He shrugged. “You inherited this house and everyone in it. I support whatever you think is best.”

I squeezed his hand and turned back to Lohman. “Why did my father hide you down here?”

“He wanted me close but his wife was afraid of me.”

I pictured my nervous mother meeting this gentle giant and nodded my understanding. “But I’m not afraid of you.”

“You aren’t?” He looked up at me in surprise.

I stepped closer. “And I bet my sons wouldn’t be afraid of you either?”

“Your sons…?” Overwhelmed by his feelings, he began to cry before he could finish speaking.

I held out my hand to him. “Would you like to meet them?”

He nodded and put his hand in mine. I tightened my grip reassuringly. We slowly mounted the stairs with my husband trailing behind.

The 50s Housewife Experiment: Update 1

The first week of the experiment went slowly. I started the new year at my in-laws house. Anyone with in-laws knows that you can't begin a journey to a new and better you with your spouse's parents in the mix, particularly since I am a firm believer of trying not to draw too much attention to myself when someone is gracious enough to let me live in their house for a couple of days. Besides, how could I greet my husband at the door with a smile on my face and dinner on the table when he was already in the house with me?

We travelled home on Saturday and spent Sunday getting used to our the morning church time slot, rooting through our Christmas prizes, and relaxing. This meant Monday was the first day I could begin my magical experiment. I didn't get to greet my husband at the door with his slippers in hands, since he needed me to pick him up from the train station, but I did hold back my complaints about how other people drive after he got in the car.

With the new year, I lucked into some research opportunities. A local television station swapped The Donna Reed show into their regular schedule. As you can imagine, I instantly started doing my homework by watching each episode as it became available to me.

In order to pay homage to Rory Gilmore, I shall make a couple of lists of my observations.

Observations of the Life of Donna Stone

1. I have yet to see her cooking while wearing pearls, but she does wear an apron. Maybe I should use one of the ones hanging on my wall for more than decoration.

2. She spent a lot of time selecting a hat for a lunch date. I don't think I am ready to wear hats. I barely remember to brush my hair.

3. One of her friends made a joke about domestic abuse. I guess some concepts are universal.

4. She actually knew her neighbors. In fact, their son would just drop by and devour anything edible. I am not sure I want to know my neighbors that well. I may be antisocial.
5. She conferred with her husband before making big purchases. My husband may wish I'd stop doing this, since my idea of a big purchase is anything over twenty dollars. (I really may have been born in the wrong era.)

Observations of the Life of Annabella Ordena  in 2015

1. Suddenly, I have a lot of household sewing projects, like hemming curtains. It is like the universe knows about my experiment and really wants to test my ability to become a domestic goddess.
2. My house does seem to be shaping up despite a sudden influx of ideas for next Christmas. (Since I tend to forget the great ideas I have at the end of the holiday season, it's best to work on them now rather than waiting until Christmas rolls around again.)
3. I still need to work on dressing up for my husband. I did put in earrings yesterday (I know--midweek), but he didn't seem to notice.

I am working on a fiction piece for your eyes, but this update demanded to be written.

The 50s Housewife Experiment

I may still be in recovery from the cancellation of "Gilmore Girls". Luckily, I have the whole series on DVD so I can relive the finest moments over and over again. One of those memorable episodes featured Rory dressing up like a 50s housewife for a date, complete with pearls. She greeted Dean at the door and proceeded to do her best impression of Donna Reed. She greeted him and ushered him in for a home-cooked meal. While our impressions of that time come from television and clips of articles advising women to wait patiently for the return of their husband because he is their world, we can take away some useful tips from these articles that tend to set off the feminists. As part of my 50s Housewife Experiment, I want to work on doing the following:

1. Have dinner ready. I have this one covered. I usually have dinner ready or close to ready when my husband arrives. I realize not everyone has the good fortune of being a stay at home spouse or partner, but slow cookers and preparing meals ahead of time so that you just need to warm them up can help with this.
2. Make myself presentable before my husband's arrival. I have a tendency to greet my husband in whatever grubby t-shirt I've been wearing all day and equally grungy jeans. I sometimes wonder if wearing something a little classier would brighten his day after long hours at work and unpleasant travels on the train.
3. Tidy up the house before my husband gets back from work. My house tends to look like a tornado of terror ripped through it, leaving a trail of thread, paper, and other miscellany in odd places. My husband never complains, but I bet he'd be thrilled not to be greeted by so much chaos when he returns to his castle.
4. Make sure the house is peaceful. Lately, I've been rocking out to excessively loud music as my husband enters the door. This doesn't deter him from trying to talk to me, but it does make it harder to carry on a conversation. I need to work on my timing, so the music goes off before he pulls into the driveway, so he and I can chat upon his arrival, which leads to the next point:
5. Complain less. While we all have difficulties in our day, I have many outlets to voice my aggravation with people who didn't respond to my emails or tried to get me to walk their dog three times a day because they didn't feel like it and they assume I have nothing going on. Here for instance. So I shouldn't annoy my husband with those complaints when he gets back from a job where he frequently has to defy logic to get things done because his coworkers are not Vulcans (in other words, don't use logic.) It wouldn't hurt me to be a little more positive, right?

Just to reassure you, these aren't exactly new year's resolutions though that last one is definitely on my list. I'm rushing to get this in before my deadline, so I may glance at it tomorrow or see a comment and update or elaborate as needed. Also, the original article phrases some of this advice in a way that I felt negated the needs of the housewife. While our husband's happiness is important to us, our happiness is important to them. These changes that I wish to make are to benefit myself and my husband...not to make him feel like I am subjugated to his every whim. Based on my interpretation of the life of a 50s housewife, does anyone care to join me in my experiment?