It's a Poo-ey Life

(I think this is the permissible way to refer to that thing which every creature leaves behind after digestion. At least, that’s what Mike, the Dirty Jobs guy calls it on T.V., so I’m assuming it’s ok.)

Women should get some kind of reward for this. Of the two sexes, we have the more sensitive sense of smell, yet we get most of the poo jobs. "Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice..." --and, ladies, don't forget the poo. Women, as a class, probably move more poo than the average dairy farmer.

Let me just predicate this, however, with the fact I’ve always been Cinderella. My mom didn’t like housework, so as soon as possible, I found myself doing a lot of hers, including scrubbing out the toilets and bathtub. I grew up scrubbing other people’s you-know-what, and although I’m in my sixties now, this business doesn’t show any sign of letting up. In this world, poo is guaranteed.

My husband did his share when we had the diaper people at our house, don’t get me wrong. He had been the oldest child in his family, and was an accomplished baby-sitter, so he knew how to rinse that stinky diaper in the pot, wring it out, and deposit it in the pail, then clean up the baby’s dear little pink bottom so he wouldn’t get a rash. I, however, had been told repeatedly that I was too clumsy to hold a baby, so I’d hardly even held one until I had one of my own to take home from the Boston-Lying in Hospital. Let me tell you, diapers weren’t the only shock which lay in store.

At first, as I was breast feeding, diaper changes weren’t so bad. Hardly any smell at all, just like bread dough that has over-risen. As baby grows and adds more variables to his diet, such as bananas, rice cereal and the occasional cow bottle, this changes, as all parents know. In those days, we hadn’t enough for a washer, so I carried my diapers to the Laundromat, and snuck them into the farthest off machine in the farthest corner. I’d usually do two cycles, add bleach and Dreft, and hope for the best. At home, in all sorts of weather, it was line dried. Sunlight, btw, does a good job on bacteria.

Then came the pets—cats. Another privileged group, who, like babies, have things worked out so that someone else cleans their bathroom. (Guess who!) I was outside today with buckets of hot, soapy water and the potty brush, giving one of the many boxes a scrub down. Clever devils, these pussy cats.

Next came the aged relatives, who also needed help in the potty department. I’ve done a lot of that kind of cleaning up over the years while my mom was in decline. And now, for the grand finale, my husband and I have both had colon re-sections, thanks to cancer. My husband’s surgeon cheerfully dubs his patients members of the “Semi-colon Club.”)

What with colonoscopies etc. in the news, there’s what might be called heightened poo awareness in our society, especially for those of us in our later years. But don’t get me wrong, there's absolutely no way I'm really too upset by all the Mrs. Clean I do. After all, I'm still on the green side of the grass. Let us never loose sight of the fact that where there’s poo there is Life—that much is for certain!

Here, dammit! Eat just a spoonful…

Many small children are picky eaters. Perhaps it’s because their taste buds and tongues are still wide awake and sensitive, before tobacco and Time. It was texture, I think, that was the biggest stumbling block for me—things like lima beans, which were dry and mealy. Sweet potatoes were not only stringy, but “funny” tasting. Of course, in kid logic, the main crime of a sweet potato is that it isn’t a white potato, which was one of the few foods I genuinely liked.

In the late 40’s, we had a lot of canned foods, especially right after the war, when we Americans were lucky to have most of the food in the world. In those days, I ate and enjoyed foods like canned spinach, canned tomatoes and string beans, some of them home made by my industrious grandpa straight out of his garden. These didn’t make my heart sink as I climbed into my chair at supper time. Canned peas, though were feared—just the thought of them, even today, is a serious downer.

My parents were of the “starving Chinese would be glad to have…and just a few spoonfuls” school, so I always had to gag down a little of whatever “abomination” was on my plate. Even peanut butter in those days, pre-hydrogenation, was a challenge because it was so dry and sticky. It tore holes in the store bread, and, unless there was a lot of jelly, I could barely get up enough spit to swallow it.

Canned fruit, heavy with syrup, had the kid seal of approval. I loved foods then I’d never choose to eat today, things like “fruit cocktail,” but only if I could leave the grainy little pear bits behind. Canned peaches were excellent. Today, after familiarity with fresh pineapple, the canned tastes flat and boring, but such treats, in those days, were only for the well-to-do.

I was thinking about this, and the amount of easily consumable food we Americans have available, because nowadays there is hardly anything I won’t eat, even the once dreaded vegetables. Beets--greens and all--parsnips, turnips, kale—they’ve got to be fresh—even the once horrid sweet potato—it’s all grist to the mill nowadays.

Inaugural, 2009

When I was seven,
we traveled to Florida
for a vacation,
and as much as the
legendary warmth in winter
I remember my parents
instructing me
after we crossed the
Mason-Dixon line,
to be very careful
of what fountain I drank
from or what bathroom I used.
We were white but not
exempt from punishment
in the event of disobedience.
They’d string us up
beside any black
person nearby,
that’s what my father
said, and I believed him,
could feel the fear and the
penning, separate,
saw black people
lowering their eyes
and stepping aside.
It made me
ashamed,
afraid
for all of us.

Tomorrow will
be a Great Day for
me--faded beige-to-pink--
the sign of a
great sea change.
Tomorrow a black man
and his beautiful black
family come to live
in America’s White House.