No good deed...

I was looking after my parents’ house and their many pets while they were away for six months. Though I am somewhat lax in tending to the needs of my own house, I’ve always been very particular in taking care of theirs. Daily vacuuming and dusting, floor washing twice a week, keeping the vegetable garden weeded…those sorts of things. I am fanatical and particular about it, maybe because I’m afraid I’ll be in trouble if I don’t measure up. Shades of childhood.

They phoned occasionally. This was, of course, long before the advent of Zoom, indeed decades before anyone had even heard of computers; much less have the capability to correspond face-to-face with someone 3000 miles away. From your family room. Techies, I’m certain, were busy exploring the huge computers that could be found in huge rooms somewhere. But, to the rest of us, the very idea was ludicrous. Unimaginable.

Was I ahead of my time, I wonder, in wishing there were a way we could see each other during those transatlantic conversations? If that had been possible, I could have shown my parents how well-kept their house was under my dedicated and relentless care. I was a grown person in my late 20s and my mother was my best friend. The thought of letting her down was inconceivable.

I forgot to mention, there were two barns housing around 30 Limousin cows and calves. For quite a few years I had helped take care of them…hauling bales of straw and hay, lugging feed bags, and digging out their manure every few days. There was always quite a bit of that. But I loved those cows and responsibility for their care was something I felt blessed to have. I really never thought of it as a chore.

Then, there was also my full-time job as a communications specialist with a large corporation, so there was truly a lot to keep me busy. I was fortunate enough, however, that I could do much of my work at home. A pen and paper were all I needed for that.

I dry-dusted and vacuumed daily, and washed the kitchen floor relentlessly the moment I detected a scintilla of dirt. Only on the weekend would I up my dusting game using Pledge or whichever furniture polish happened to be the cheapest. (I felt guilty about that.) Every Saturday, I would scrub the kitchen, from counters to floor, vacuum the entire house; only then would I get the Pledge and wood polish every wood surface I could find.

My parents’ house was huge and, at that time, cursed with shag carpets in practically every room. I suppose that would have been a good choice in home decoration in other households but, there were four dogs and three cats traipsing in and out, paws coated in mud and, more often than not, in bits of manure. It was definitely an all-consuming task to keep things clean every day. I mention this only to illustrate the sheer amount of cleaning there was. Always.

On the Saturday before their return, I double-dutied and attacked with near ferocity the cleaning of the family dwelling to ensure my parents would be astonished by the wonderful job I’d done. I was in the final room, spray-dusting furniture. Only THE PIANO remained to be done. It may not have been Grand, that piano, but it was my mother’s pride and joy. She would play every day, all her favorites from the ‘40s and ‘50s, every Irish song she knew (hundreds) and, occasionally, she’d tackle some rather advanced sheet music. I had learned to play on this piano my mother so revered. I loved it, but my attachment was nowhere near hers.

As I was finishing the Piano’s face panel, I was interrupted by a phone call that lasted seemingly forever. When I could finally hang up, I retrieved my dust cloth and returned to deliver my finishing touch to the revered Piano.

I WAS MET with disaster, one that caused my stomach immediately to churn and my breathing to become panicked. Definite panic. There, on the face board, for all the world to see, was an immense stain much lighter in color than the rest of the dark mahogany Piano. It screamed at me, so loudly it sent shivers down my now sweaty spine.

What had I done? How had I let this happen? How DID it happen?

Surveying the horror before me, I cringed to realize that I’d sprayed the furniture polish onto the face board, just as the phone began to ring. When I went to answer it, I’d left the last bit of the face board drenched in Pledge. The result was a blowhard of a sickening stain, much lighter in color than the rest of the surface.

How stupid. How stupid. How stupid. Why hadn’t I sprayed the cloth instead of the piano? I prayed that this nightmare of a misshapen blob would be fixable, and racked my brain trying to recall if I’d ever heard anything about removing stains from wood. Nothing. Not a single thing came to mind. And, of course there was no Mr. Google to consult and lead me through the restitution process.

So I improvised. What else could I do? Three things came to mind, all of them useless.

Another polish perhaps? I found some that looked a bit more heavy duty than mere Pledge, applied them one after the other over the stain, gave the wood a tentative rub, and immediately realized I was making it worse.

Water? Would that be of any help? Of course it wasn’t. The stain had begun shape shifting and seemed to be getting bigger. I tried to calm myself, totally unsuccessfully, and desperately thought searched my brain for any snippet of helpful information that may have been stored in it.

In sheer panic, I got the Pledge once again and sprayed it all over the Piano face board, with a blistering fervor that some may have thought deranged. As soon as I’d done that, I realized it was incredibly stupid, got a clean dust cloth and wiped frantically at the new coating I’d introduced to the face board. I prayed I hadn’t made things worse.

I had made things worse.

Cigarette ashes. I thought I had heard something about them repairing wood stains. I needed cigarette ashes. First, I needed cigarettes. My mother was an occasional smoker and I knew she usually kept a few cigarettes in her night table drawer. I hurried to check the drawer and, with the luck I seemed to be having, was almost shocked when there were cigarettes there.

After I’d searched the house for matches or a lighter, and found the latter, I puffed as vigorously as I could, dumped the ashes on a plate, and began dabbing at the offending mark with a vengeance. But, dab as I might, it did absolutely nothing.

I could feel the piano’s disgust with me. I could feel its glare. It had started the day unadulterated and, now, was destined to bear the disfigurement I had wrought for its eternity.

The shame and stupidity I felt were mild in comparison to the guilt and self-loathing that descended upon me. I’d destroyed the most important and beloved possession my mother had. There was no way she was going to laugh it off as a trivial, negligible mistake. She would be horrified when she saw what I’d done. And devastated by what my momentary negligence had caused. I could clearly imagine the pained and sad expression that would be on her face, and feel her disappointment when she saw the huge blemish on the only thing in the house she truly cherished. From now on, I knew that every time she would sit at her Piano, she would be reminded of my treachery. At the very least, my incompetence.

After months of my keeping everything clean and in order, insuring that my parents’ return would be met with a house that was pristine and welcoming, this one stupid thing made all my efforts seem futile. I spent the next few days in tears, and in dread of what would happen. How angry would she be?

They returned to a visibly clean house, them much the worse for wear because of the less than pleasant fight they’d just experienced. I had hoped against hope that my mother wouldn’t notice the damage in the weary state she seemed. My hopes were immediately dashed.

I never was able to decipher exactly how angry she was with me. Let’s say she was visibly displeased. I was more worried, though, about her feelings, her emotions, and her inevitable dismay. The guilt still reverberates through me. Though, to some, it might now seem to be a faint memory, a trivial episode barely remembered, it will forever loom large in my conscience each time I see that stain when I sit down to play that Piano.

Yes, it’s mine now, all these decades later. And I treasure it even more, I think, than she did. To her it was a possession. To me, it’s more than that. It’s where I always feel at peace, knowing she is somewhere nearby, content that her beloved Piano is still being loved and treasured.

I still don’t know just how angry she was. In retrospect, I really don’t need to know.