HopelesslyJoan

I was a kid in the fifties. Back then cars were large, especially station wagons. We had  two, a green one and a white one. That was my extent of car knowledge then, and pretty much now.

Many families happily loaded their cars so full of kids and supplies for summer vacations that  rear bumpers hit the pavement when the springs bounced. Ours did, anyway! We’d be gone for a month and we needed to be prepared.

Invariably it was a late start, every time for our family trip. In addition to a tent a circus would envy, there was a hibachi and dishes, baby supplies and luggage  and a  twenty-pound grey tabby cat with his array of necessities. The litter box was always packed last and at the far end of the station wagon. Somehow he always clawed his nimble self up, over and through the tightly packed clutter (and we always knew WHEN, by the pungent odour) to find relief .

In the sixties, both my parents smoked. Between the various baby smells that my little sister produced, and the cat’s contribution, the cigarette smoke was almost pleasant.  It masked the other smells, anyway!

Invariably, also, would be a quiet tenseness in the vehicle as we got further away from home. Finally my Mother would mumble in a quiet, low voice and my Father would hit the steering column with the palm of his hand. Soon, we would be retracing the route and parking in front of our house.  One of them, usually my mother, ran inside. After a hasty return, off we’d go again. Once we hit the open road my parents would crack open a beer to share between them.  All the tension would subside and the fun of the trip would  finally begin.

This scenario was played out several times on a mini-scale, too. Sometimes my Dad wouldn’t get a block away before my Mom would start mumbling and muttering, and we’d have to go back while she ran into the house again.
The reason seldom varied. It was  almost always her sudden, slow growing  fear that she had left the iron plugged in. I think she actually HAD left it on once, but that might just be wishful thinking…..

Sometimes  she was sure was that the oven was still on or that a cigarette was  cheerfully burning away in one of the dozens of ashtrays scattered throughout  the house. In those days, cigarettes were so cheap, she’d often have a few on the go in convenient spots in different rooms.

I was about forty  years old  when this “burning down the house” type of panic attack suddenly turned me into my Mother. Not being a smoker nor an ironer meant I had to worry about other potential disasters. Luckily, I do use a stove to cook, drink tea and love candles- all three of which can  involve almost certain and devastating fire hazards if left unattended….

And, as  luck would have it, I am better at creating potential damage than my Mother was. Perhaps its because I do not have a husband anymore to come along behind me and tidy dangling ends- or reassure me later that all is well.

I actually Have left the house on a lazy little walk, only to arrive home to a wall of grey smoke pouring down the hallway from the kitchen because a pot of boiling water had been left on the stove. Flames  shot everywhere, but somehow cornstarch and water saved the day.

I HAVE  left a kettle on for that second cup of tea which  I needed so desparetely and then I forgot about in my haste to get out the door and to work on time. ( I tracked down a neighbour ,when I suddenly remembered  from work . She braved my large and rather scarey dog, and managed to get to it before it boiled dry).

Candles…well, I am sure my angels  have worked over-time on several occasions. When I was going through the  “too-much-wine might help a broken heart- time, ” I listened to a lot of sad songs by candlight. And woke up hours later to find candle wax  pooled in globs on carpets or even dripped down and over in colourful ribbons on stereo equipment and t.v. sets which  never worked again.

Now I have a new twist on “ Leaving the House “ paranoia,  though.  I have developed a key quirk. It goes like this-
I exit house, put key in house door lock, turn and remove. I get into car, pull out of drive-way and stop ( there, if I am lucky; other times I am blocks away). I feel that cold, clammy hand of fear and the fog of uncertainty as I try to recall whether or not the lock actually “clicked”.

Maybe it is still unlocked. A prowler could  just walk in ( and be attacked by Big dog, but still, not a good scenario!). Maybe door will blow open and Big Dog will go for walk by himself…also not a great thought.

I go back to door , check it and return to car in relief. Or somedays I just get it all over with and re-open the door ( it IS always locked, by the way). Then I can go in and check that appliances are unplugged, nothing is smoldering, and the burners are really off.

I think my Mother would be amused by all this, and possibly a little proud, too if she were still alive . My own daughter  still manages to dash out her door, jump into her car and disappear into the distance but I kind of think those care-free car trips days are numbered.  And SHE does iron…..