During this year’s family reunion my brother and his wife slept next door at my daughter’s house. There was a bit of a problem. They were to sleep in my granddaughter’s bedroom and Teresa had to clean it first. She described taking a pail of water into the room as she began cleaning. I had to laugh as I remembered doing the same thing when Teresa was a teen. In fact, I wrote a story about it 12 years ago and will share it with you:

My teenager often walked out of her bedroom looking like a dream, her long blonde hair flowing - straight and shining. It was obvious she spent hours planning just the right outfit to obtain this look of perfection.

It never ceased to amaze me how she could look so “put together” while living in a room with utter chaos.

Nor could I understand her impeccable taste on one hand and her tolerance of a cluttered bedroom on the other.

I glanced to make sure her door closed behind her.

In one of our heated arguments over the condition of her room I demanded, “You may wish to live in a pig sty, but I don’t have to see it, so keep your door closed!” I knew behind that door lay clothes scattered over floor and furniture, unmade beds and scarcely a pathway through the clutter.

I began a pretend game with myself. Behind that closed door was a room neat and clean. Then I would open the door to put away her laundry or water a plant hidden amid the mess and all pretense would go out the window, or it would if one could find the window.

I’m not sure when I lost control of the situation.

Might have been when I became weary of reminding her to make her bed and declaring I’d never tell her again. Or it could have been after the countless times I told her to clean her room, “or else”. I never quite figured out the “or else”.

Her two older brothers in the adjoining room always had their beds made and clothes picked up. All I had to do was dust andvacuum their room.

There were days when, for health’s sake, her room had to be sanitized. I would wait until I knew she’d be gone all day (the task would take that long), then, with a bucket of detergent, water and disinfectant, I’d undertake the cleanup.

Hours later I’d leave her room with the furniture sparkling, clean sheets on the bed and all clothes washed, ironed and hung.

I then prepared myself for when she would get home, open her door and discover the cleaned room. She’d scream at me for throwing out a gum wrapper, empty coke can or other treasured mementos from admirers.

And the day following this periodic cleaning the room would again acquire that messy, lived-in look. Then I’d begin my pretend game again.

Years later she walked out of that room looking like a dream to keep a date with her husband-to-be. I said to him, “Before you marry this daughter of ours, I feel it important you see her bedroom. It isn’t fair for you to marry a woman with secrets.” Amid howls of protest from my daughter, I led him into her room. Taking it all in at a glance, he screeched, then backed out.

He married her anyhow.

She did try to make her room presentable so we could enjoy motherdaughter talks as we planned her wedding.

When she laid out her white wedding dress and veil on the bed I wished I hadn’t concentrated so much on a clean room but had loved and enjoyed her more so she could have understood how God loves His children, even when they mess up.

Now, years later, her spotless house often puts me to shame. She’s a wonderful cook, a fantastic quilter, a devoted wife and loving mother. I’m so proud she lives next door. I love to walk into her tastefully decorated home. No closed doors anymore.

Marie Wiggin Putman, one-time Gravette resident, shares her thoughts with our readers twice every month.

Opinion, Pages 4 on 07/07/2010