At 4 a.m. the following morning Dorothy was up and packing. An hour later, I started loading cases, boxes, and assorted loose items into my car. At one point Dorothy handed me an 18-count package of toilet paper.
“I’m not sure you’ll need this much paper, Mom.”
“You men don’t know anything,” she said. “A woman needs a lot of toilet paper.”
What the heck, I thought. There was plenty of room in the car, so I wedged the pack in the trunk.
“I’m not sure you’ll need this much paper, Mom.”
“You men don’t know anything,” she said. “A woman needs a lot of toilet paper.”
What the heck, I thought. There was plenty of room in the car, so I wedged the pack in the trunk.
While I was making these trips back and forth to the parking lot, we had left the sliding screen door open. As I was just starting again for this exit, a mouse suddenly scurried over the lintel, hustled along the wall, and disappeared beneath a chair. I was stunned. Knocked over. I just couldn’t believe we had finally almost finished packing the car and now had to deal with a mouse. If I mentioned the situation to Dorothy, we might never leave for the wedding. On the other hand, if I kept quiet and ignored the rodent, Dorothy might return from her trip to an apartment housing a mouse. And what if that mouse was pregnant?
Then I remembered my teacher from the previous evening. Patience, I thought, and leaving the screen door ajar, I stepped to the other side of the room and watched. In about thirty more seconds here came that mouse again, sprinting close to the wall and then scrambling over the lintel to vanish into the shadows outside.
On every other trip to the parking lot I made certain I pulled that door closed.
Finally, about three hours after waking, we were off to Virginia.
On our two-day ride together, Dorothy and I had several fine conversations, but the most amusing were what I came to regard as her “wake-up remarks.” Every hour of so she would fall asleep for a few minutes. When she wakened, she would speak as if we were in the middle of a conversation. Fortunately, I knew her well enough to respond appropriately.
“It was a pretty little town,” she said once after opening her eyes, “but I never bought much there.”
“Yes, Mom, Waynesville’s a nice place.”
Another waking moment: “I wish she didn’t have to drive so far, and that traffic is so awful.”
“It’s tough for Karyl, all right,” I agreed. (Karyl is the daughter who lives in Atlanta.)
Because I wanted to prepare Emily and Jon Pat’s wedding rehearsal dinner myself, and because my son Jake and his family would need a place to stay, I had rented a farmhouse near Front Royal. After meeting up with my daughter and her children in town, we drove into the countryside, a postcard place of rolling hills, forests, pastures, and fields. We tumbled from our cars in the driveway to the farmhouse, a two-hundred-year old brick home with beautiful lines, painted white and surrounded by trees.
As we started for the front door, the owner, whom I’ll call Dale, stepped from the house and handed me the keys. “I hope you enjoy your stay,” he said. Dale appeared to be sweating, and his hair was wet. “Just call me if you need anything. I’m right down the road.” Then he strode off to this car. As a former bed-and-breakfast owner, I thought it strange he didn’t show us inside, pointing out any special features of the kitchen or baths, or telling us more about the property’s history.
Then I entered the house and the reason for Dale’s swift departure became immediately apparent.
Bits of paper and balls of dust littered the floor. Hundreds of dead flies lay on the floor, the tables, the chairs and beds. The bath nearest the front door was still damp from Dale’s shower. In one of the bedrooms I bent to investigate what I thought was an intricate pattern on the bed sheets and found myself surveying a field of black, matted dog hair. In the kitchen were unwashed plates and dishes, bits of food in the sink, mud on the floor, a grimy stove and refrigerator. On the back porch a stray champagne bottle lolled about on the floorboards. Upstairs, the air in the bedrooms stank of unwashed sheets and old carpeting.
For a good half an hour Kaylie, Dorothy, and I inspected this fine antebellum house that looked as if a band of squatters had decamped minutes before our arrival. Then I called Dale.
At this point, doubtless because my dumbfounded reaction to this mess was giving way to rage, I can’t remember whether Dale and I talked in person by phone that afternoon or if I left him a voice mail. In either case, I told him I had operated a bed-and-breakfast for twenty years, had stayed in numerous rental houses and motels, and had never seen so disgusting and filthy a place as this one. I then explained I intended to have the house ready for a reception by Friday evening and would bill him for my services. With the upcoming rehearsal dinner and the arrival of other guests, I said, I needed this house. (What kind of maniac was this man? At the end of the week, when we agreed I wouldn’t pay any of the bill except the deposit I had already given him, Dale told me his cleaning woman couldn’t come that day. I burst out laughing. Clearly, no one, cleaning woman or otherwise, had touched that house in months—not with those flies, the dog hair—I hope it was dog hair—and that filth. A normal owner would have either reimbursed the deposit or else put his clients in a hotel until he had the place cleaned. Dale, I decided, was either crazy or an addict: those were the only logical explanations for his inexplicable behavior. One other bit of humor: in his advertising, Dale had stressed that he approached the house and property as an environmentalist. Some create sanctuaries for birds and small mammals; Dale had built a Green space for flies.)
So instead of enjoying a few days of pleasant visits with my daughter and her family, and with Emily and Jon Pat, I threw myself into the task of rendering the house presentable both for occupation and for the rehearsal dinner. Dorothy pitched in beside me, though she needed frequent naps, and Kaylie came to help a few times as well. We swept up dead flies, we washed upwards of fifteen loads of laundry, we swept the lovely wide-plank floors, we washed down the kitchen, we cleaned the foul bathrooms. My worst moment of this cleanup came on Thursday, when I moved a bed upstairs to make more room for Jeremy and Jon Pat, and found a dead robin on the floor beneath the bed.
In one detail regarding these despicable quarters Dorothy was more a trooper than I. That first night, she crawled right into a bed on the first floor and fell immediately into a deep sleep. I took one look at the other beds in the house, imagined them inhabited by every kind of insect I despise—lice, bedbugs, chiggers, spiders—and spent that night, and every other night, sleeping atop the large library table in the den. That first night I probably woke every twenty minutes, due to the discomfort of sleeping on a wooden slab and the fear that some reptile or pernicious insect might be slithering up the table leg.
By Friday evening the house sparkled. We filled the dining rom table with all sorts of hors d’oeuvres—shrimp, chopped vegetables and fruit, cheeses and breads and crackers---and with various sandwiches. My in-laws on my daughter’s side, Sharon and Chris, unexpectedly sent over an enormous salmon and some other treats. The wedding the next day was lovely and fine, and the reception at a nearby country club came off without a hitch.
On Sunday Dale and I met on the back porch of the house away from the hearing of others. He kept the deposit; I kept the rest of the money normally owed him. Again—this seems a recurrent theme in these essays—I regret not asking him what in heaven’s name he was thinking by renting out a house in that condition. No malice is attached to this question: I really am curious, though now, once more, it is too late.
That trip and our stay in the House of the Flies brought me several gifts. Our encounter with Dale reminded me of the enigmatic nature of the human being and gave me some stories for retelling. My time with Dorothy deepened my regard for her and taught me some patience. Finally, I discovered women really don’t use all that much toilet paper—Dorothy left behind a dozen rolls at my daughter’s house.
Then I remembered my teacher from the previous evening. Patience, I thought, and leaving the screen door ajar, I stepped to the other side of the room and watched. In about thirty more seconds here came that mouse again, sprinting close to the wall and then scrambling over the lintel to vanish into the shadows outside.
On every other trip to the parking lot I made certain I pulled that door closed.
Finally, about three hours after waking, we were off to Virginia.
On our two-day ride together, Dorothy and I had several fine conversations, but the most amusing were what I came to regard as her “wake-up remarks.” Every hour of so she would fall asleep for a few minutes. When she wakened, she would speak as if we were in the middle of a conversation. Fortunately, I knew her well enough to respond appropriately.
“It was a pretty little town,” she said once after opening her eyes, “but I never bought much there.”
“Yes, Mom, Waynesville’s a nice place.”
Another waking moment: “I wish she didn’t have to drive so far, and that traffic is so awful.”
“It’s tough for Karyl, all right,” I agreed. (Karyl is the daughter who lives in Atlanta.)
Because I wanted to prepare Emily and Jon Pat’s wedding rehearsal dinner myself, and because my son Jake and his family would need a place to stay, I had rented a farmhouse near Front Royal. After meeting up with my daughter and her children in town, we drove into the countryside, a postcard place of rolling hills, forests, pastures, and fields. We tumbled from our cars in the driveway to the farmhouse, a two-hundred-year old brick home with beautiful lines, painted white and surrounded by trees.
As we started for the front door, the owner, whom I’ll call Dale, stepped from the house and handed me the keys. “I hope you enjoy your stay,” he said. Dale appeared to be sweating, and his hair was wet. “Just call me if you need anything. I’m right down the road.” Then he strode off to this car. As a former bed-and-breakfast owner, I thought it strange he didn’t show us inside, pointing out any special features of the kitchen or baths, or telling us more about the property’s history.
Then I entered the house and the reason for Dale’s swift departure became immediately apparent.
Bits of paper and balls of dust littered the floor. Hundreds of dead flies lay on the floor, the tables, the chairs and beds. The bath nearest the front door was still damp from Dale’s shower. In one of the bedrooms I bent to investigate what I thought was an intricate pattern on the bed sheets and found myself surveying a field of black, matted dog hair. In the kitchen were unwashed plates and dishes, bits of food in the sink, mud on the floor, a grimy stove and refrigerator. On the back porch a stray champagne bottle lolled about on the floorboards. Upstairs, the air in the bedrooms stank of unwashed sheets and old carpeting.
For a good half an hour Kaylie, Dorothy, and I inspected this fine antebellum house that looked as if a band of squatters had decamped minutes before our arrival. Then I called Dale.
At this point, doubtless because my dumbfounded reaction to this mess was giving way to rage, I can’t remember whether Dale and I talked in person by phone that afternoon or if I left him a voice mail. In either case, I told him I had operated a bed-and-breakfast for twenty years, had stayed in numerous rental houses and motels, and had never seen so disgusting and filthy a place as this one. I then explained I intended to have the house ready for a reception by Friday evening and would bill him for my services. With the upcoming rehearsal dinner and the arrival of other guests, I said, I needed this house. (What kind of maniac was this man? At the end of the week, when we agreed I wouldn’t pay any of the bill except the deposit I had already given him, Dale told me his cleaning woman couldn’t come that day. I burst out laughing. Clearly, no one, cleaning woman or otherwise, had touched that house in months—not with those flies, the dog hair—I hope it was dog hair—and that filth. A normal owner would have either reimbursed the deposit or else put his clients in a hotel until he had the place cleaned. Dale, I decided, was either crazy or an addict: those were the only logical explanations for his inexplicable behavior. One other bit of humor: in his advertising, Dale had stressed that he approached the house and property as an environmentalist. Some create sanctuaries for birds and small mammals; Dale had built a Green space for flies.)
So instead of enjoying a few days of pleasant visits with my daughter and her family, and with Emily and Jon Pat, I threw myself into the task of rendering the house presentable both for occupation and for the rehearsal dinner. Dorothy pitched in beside me, though she needed frequent naps, and Kaylie came to help a few times as well. We swept up dead flies, we washed upwards of fifteen loads of laundry, we swept the lovely wide-plank floors, we washed down the kitchen, we cleaned the foul bathrooms. My worst moment of this cleanup came on Thursday, when I moved a bed upstairs to make more room for Jeremy and Jon Pat, and found a dead robin on the floor beneath the bed.
In one detail regarding these despicable quarters Dorothy was more a trooper than I. That first night, she crawled right into a bed on the first floor and fell immediately into a deep sleep. I took one look at the other beds in the house, imagined them inhabited by every kind of insect I despise—lice, bedbugs, chiggers, spiders—and spent that night, and every other night, sleeping atop the large library table in the den. That first night I probably woke every twenty minutes, due to the discomfort of sleeping on a wooden slab and the fear that some reptile or pernicious insect might be slithering up the table leg.
By Friday evening the house sparkled. We filled the dining rom table with all sorts of hors d’oeuvres—shrimp, chopped vegetables and fruit, cheeses and breads and crackers---and with various sandwiches. My in-laws on my daughter’s side, Sharon and Chris, unexpectedly sent over an enormous salmon and some other treats. The wedding the next day was lovely and fine, and the reception at a nearby country club came off without a hitch.
On Sunday Dale and I met on the back porch of the house away from the hearing of others. He kept the deposit; I kept the rest of the money normally owed him. Again—this seems a recurrent theme in these essays—I regret not asking him what in heaven’s name he was thinking by renting out a house in that condition. No malice is attached to this question: I really am curious, though now, once more, it is too late.
That trip and our stay in the House of the Flies brought me several gifts. Our encounter with Dale reminded me of the enigmatic nature of the human being and gave me some stories for retelling. My time with Dorothy deepened my regard for her and taught me some patience. Finally, I discovered women really don’t use all that much toilet paper—Dorothy left behind a dozen rolls at my daughter’s house.