In those days I sometimes went down into the basement and banged an old pie-tin around; this, though, not so much from anger as from a feeling of inward irritation and pent-up energy—a desire to make a racket. One day I made such a dent in a tin that Mother told me I had better keep that one downstairs just for that purpose when the mood came on. So whenever the desperate spell would come over me, I would go down there and kick the old tin about; the cat would jump in terror out of the window, and I’d bang away till the noise, the exercise, and the absurdity of it all exorcised the demon, when I would go upstairs flushed, relieved, and good-naturedly at ease. I suppose I did not have enough play, and this furnished a needed outlet. Mother was wise to indulge me in it—I often wish I had that pie-tin now!
As to Mother’s habit of leaving the dishes, I used to quote to her, “Parents, provoke not your children to wrath,” as I would tell her how other girls’ mothers did. But she would only say, “Don’t touch the dishes, I’ll do them—I only wanted to put in those bulbs,” or “transplant that shrub”—“I only went out for a few minutes”; the same old story—it never appeased me. I wonder now if it was not something she was practically powerless to resist. She was not very well those years; it was probably during a crisis in her woman’s life when she had need of relaxation, and felt difficulty in concentrating on the common round of duties. It was doubtless a salutary thing for her. Not always flowers, in winter it was piece-work, carpet rags, or quilting, pursued to the exclusion of regular tasks, and always from her the lame excuses! It grieves me now to think how impatient and critical Sister and I were because she would not conform to our wishes. Now I believe she could not. Since then I have seen other women pushed on in a similar manner by an imperative need of some absorbing diversion, and have come to regard it as a safety-valve at certain periods in their lives. Mother was not a poor housekeeper in the ordinary sense; she was neat and fastidious and a good cook; her house was sweet and clean from top to bottom—this of which I speak was a surface disorder, due to lack of method and to postponing things, the neglect of which gave a cluttered appearance to kitchen and pantry which sorely tried my methodical soul.
I have heard Mother plead with her mother, in much the same way (only more kindly) that Sister and I would plead with her—concerning Grandma’s queer way of doing her work. For example she would put the scouring-board on the floor to scour her knives. But she could not persuade her to adopt the easier, rational way. We wondered, when Mother would marvel at Grandma’s obstinacy, why she could not see that she, in turn, was equally obstinate.
One of Mother’s sisters was such a strenuous housekeeper that she lost sight of what it means to make a home, so intent was she on having things immaculate, and in maintaining a painful orderliness from cellar to garret. The habit grew on her in later years. I can remember when she used to get up delicious dinners at our family reunions, opening her house with real hospitality; but a few years after her late marriage to a widower with a large family, her peculiarities developed and, taken with a captious disposition and shrewish temper, made her a trying person to deal with. Yet she had a generous nature and could not do enough for one at times. But let some little thing displease her and a tantrum would result; she would twit the one at whom she was enraged of every trifle she ever gave him and would rake up every little and big grievance against him. These tirades would be as likely to occur on the street as elsewhere. We learned not to cross her, even if she made statements that we knew were wrong; for to disagree with her was to see the fur fly. Yet how amiable she was to strangers—to everyone, for that matter, when in her good moods! and she was kind at heart, even to those she would on occasion rake over the coals. Mother could not bear to have us criticize her. “I know—I’m sorry, but it’s her way, you mustn’t stir her up,” she would say. She was a woman of keen intelligence, well educated, public-spirited, and with a distinct gift for composition. She dressed much younger than her years, with a marked individuality in dress. In later years she seemed obsessed with a love of fine clothes, which she kept in a wardrobe full to overflowing, wearing her plainer ones as a rule.
Another queer aunt, perhaps in the late thirties, also married a widower—such a timid, docile creature that we children wondered how he ever got up spunk enough to propose to Aunt Ann. Though having marked peculiarities, she had a keen, quick mind and a phenomenal memory. She was very obstinate.
It was years before we children learned of the skeleton in her house. We knew that when visiting her, Mother took along sheets, towels, etc., but supposed it was to save work for Aunt Ann—the excuse usually offered. Later we learned that, spic and span as was her house in general appearance, and neat as she was about her cooking, she had an unheard-of peculiarity in that she never did any washing nor had any done. This queerness must have grown on her in middle life. At the time I learned of it, her washtubs had fallen down, and her flatirons were covered with rust. Shrewd as she was in concealing this singularity, a close observer could discern abundant evidence of it. We learned that Mother had laboured with her all to no purpose. So Sister and I decided to make Aunt Ann a visit and see what we could do to effect a change. Talking about it at first with our uncle, we told him our intention. He said it would do no good, and that it would not be safe for him if she knew he had discussed it with us. He startled us by saying that she had a violent temper, and had often berated him so loudly that the neighbours heard her; that she had even used profane language and threatened his life—she, a regular church-goer and apparently an exemplary woman!
“She can’t help it, she’s crazy,” the husband said. This seemed so incredible that we almost thought him the crazy one; still, there were these incomprehensible things which we knew were true, and the others might be so, too.
As Aunt Ann took pride in us and our pretty clothes, we conceived the plan of appealing to this pride to bring her to terms, an invitation to a neighbourhood party hastening our preliminary attack. That afternoon she had said, “Girls, you will wear your velveteen dresses to-night?” We would, we agreed, if she would let us do her washing the next day. Bridling up, she said she guessed she could do her own washing when she needed to. This gave us the opening. Beginning guardedly, not letting her know that we knew the extent of her negligence, we said we knew she was not strong, and we wanted to help her. But as she persisted in saying that nothing needed to be done, we were obliged to instance this, and that, that were so obvious; and finally laid all pretense aside. Yet, when confronted with the facts, she stoutly maintained that everything was as it should be. Then we told her how ashamed we were; how Grandma and Mother grieved over these queer ways; and how it was the talk of the neighbourhood. We said we did not care to go to any parties there, or to church, or anywhere, when one of our own flesh and blood was such a disgrace to us. Then we threatened to leave her, never to come there again, unless from that day she would do differently.
It was a tragic afternoon—that middle-aged woman convicted of these unheard-of things, and berated by her nieces whose family pride was stung, yet whose affection for her persisted in spite of it all. We were baffled and bewildered by her conduct in the first place, and her inaccessibility to reason in the next. She attempted no defence; would not meet our arguments; would declare things that were so were not so, till repeatedly confronted with them; then would stand there, sad-eyed, like a creature at bay, sometimes darkly hinting, “You don’t know, you can’t understand.”
“What is it we can’t understand? Tell us, let us try,” we urged. Convinced that there was a dread mystery somewhere, we tried in vain to fathom it. Was there some terrible thing concerning the poor-spirited uncle about which we did not know? But all the time we would come back to the thought that nothing, nothing excused this strange conduct. We cried, we pleaded, we threatened, we entreated; she would not promise to mend her ways or even admit that they needed mending; yet with a strange insistence showed as much persistence in urging us to go to that party and wear our velveteen gowns as we showed in urging her to begin a radical reform in this matter of household management, concerning which there could be no two rational opinions.