Vivacious was the word that came to Elenore’s mind when gazing in her mirror. Never mind that she was in her mid-seventies. Never mind that before she did her makeup, her face looked like the shell of a walnut. She knew she was still young and desirable. After all, whenever she took her precious baby granddaughter for a stroll through Powder House Park, people stopped to admire them, clearly seeing them as mother and daughter.
She had a head for business, too. Her Amway and Nutrilite sales were through the roof, and her bank balance proved it. Her customer list boasted the very who’s-who of Somerville, Massachusetts. Never mind the doubters and deniers who believed her husband Richard’s jewelry business supported the family. Small-minded people are always uncomfortable in the presence of a successful woman.
Still, she never let her business life take away from her role as homemaker. She took great pride in the beauty and elegance of her home. She walked through her hallway, living room and dining room, admiring her lovely white carpets, which she kept protected with clear plastic runners to avoid messy stains and premature wear and tear. Her living room furniture, too, was protected by securely fitted clear plastic covers. Knowing the unpredictability of their behavior, she never allowed her family or any casual visitors to enter the living room. That room was strictly off limits, unless she was entertaining important people.
Elenore was especially proud of her success in the kitchen. She prided herself on providing healthy, delicious meals for her family. Julia Child? Who the hell is she?
Elenore did not drive. No lady of her generation ever would. Once a week she walked three blocks to Ball Square where she bought her groceries at Bains Market. They had a boy who bagged and delivered her order. The first time he delivered to her, the presumptuous little fart stood there in the kitchen with his hand out for a tip. Elenore had no tolerance for such rude behavior. She paid plenty for her groceries. If Bains didn’t pay their help, it’s wasn’t her fault, and he could tell them she said so. That took care of that. From then on he was polite and respectful.
Elenore’s son David lived in the flat upstairs with his wife Brenda and Elenore’s precious baby granddaughter Clair. Brenda, was a great disappointment—puny, snot-nosed, sickly little thing with a habit of interrupting important conversation with inane unrelated remarks. Never mind that Brenda had a PHD in Psychology—David could have done so much better. He was a catch. Brenda was barely bait. Sweet little Clair was the only bright spot in the marriage.
On Sundays, Elenore insisted on having the family together for dinner. She relished the opportunity to shine. But, more importantly, she knew Brenda needed to be taught a thing or two about being a good wife and mother.
to be continued…
E J Barron
E J Barron 