At nine thirty last night a bedraggled Martha (to me, MomA) and a worn out Hannah pulled into 1503 Pebble Drive. My in-laws house is large and white with country blue shutters. The right side of it glows in the nighttime, the lights of the kitchen and living room addition glimmering like a Thomas Kincade painting.
After working tirelessly laying floors and painting trim in Jonathan and Jamie's house, together with transporting teenagers to their various camps and toting a toddler from babysitter to babysitter, we were, needless to say, pooped. Nonetheless, as I settled down at the computer MomA disappeared upstairs for a solid hour. When she finally emerged she announced she had finally gotten her teenage son's (now away for six weeks) room into a hospitable condition. As Jonathan and Jamie's bed was piled high with boxes and furniture and clean laundry while awaiting new floors, 1503 offered itself as Bed and Breakfast for the weary workers.
I was dubious, being that I knew the general state of my brother-in-law's room, but when I topped the stairs I looked into the most inviting room that could offer itself out of teenage chaos. I mean, it was immaculate! The air mattress was topped with crisply layed sheets, a folded over blanket, and fluffed pillows. There were two matching towels sitting politely on the corner of the bed. Knowing that I hadn't heard a maid go up there with her, nor a vacuum cleaner (Jonathan was sleeping) I was rather curious as to how this magic had happened. I looked, but Mary Poppins was assuredly not standing in the corner. Letting my eyes pass over the equally inviting guest room where Bill and Candy Gref were staying, I went back downstairs and complimented her on her work.
"Well, it's not perfect, but after they worked so hard I just want them to have somewhere comfortable to sleep," she said with a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders.
I didn't point out that she doesn't ever spoil herself with the same attention for her own room before bedding down, no matter how many hours she has pulled being taxi driver, saleswoman, doctor, nutritionist, cook, and babysitter. I simply didn't think she'd see the connection.
We waited an hour longer before the rest of the troupe returned from working, straggling in like Snow White's dwarves. I thought maybe she'd usher her houseguests upstairs to show off her minute handiwork, but she just laughed with them and offered to serve her mom's famous berry cobbler. After we had collapsed for about half an hour in glorious relaxation and dessert, everyone headed upstairs and the lights went out.
I personally love the leather couches in the living room, so I listened as the lights tick-tick-ticked and the soft pad-pad of feet finally drifting to blissful pillows. As she headed to her own room I asked her, "Do you feel like you're running a hotel, MomA?"
"Oh, I love it," she said. I could hear the tired in her voice, but I could also hear the genuine joyfulness.
The next morning Candy Gref stood in the kitchen stretching before her customary walk. "Martha," she said in a sing-song voice, "the hotel we stayed in last night must have known it was our anniversary. They left a card under the door... and flowers!" She had a twinkle in her eye and MomA just smiled contentedly.
We all smiled then, for we all know that Martha Adams would rather spend an extra $50 on plush towels to lay out for her guests than a cute pair of shoes. We all chuckled to ourselves, knowing that laying out that card and planting those flowers made her just as happy as a five-year-old in a toy store.
No comments:
Post a Comment