Wrapped in plastic

On Saturday, I went to pick up my grandmother for lunch. Arriving at the house, I found the vacuum waiting for me. "Would you mind?" my mother asked. "I've already picked up all the mats, so it will be easy!"

My mother has about 457 floor mats scattered around her home. She's also covered each chair and sofa with a blanket or throw of some kind. There's little chance a bare foot or pant-covered thigh will touch original carpet or upholstery. What is her deal with keeping furniture pristine?

This must be something inherited from the previous thrifty (some might say cheapskate) generation. Each summer during the 1970s, we would travel to Arkansas to visit my dad's parents. We kids would groan to ourselves. None of us liked going. A visit to the Arkansas clan was never fun. It was always hot, and the mosquitoes were bad. The relatives were all ancient, and went to bed at 7 o'clock. We had to do lots of yard work and we couldn't sit on the furniture.

That's right. We weren't allowed on the furniture. Grandma Lena had purchased a new couch in 1965. Ten years later, it still looked brand new. And it was still covered in the plastic it had been wrapped in at the factory.

We used to make a game out of it -- see which one of us could sit on it for the longest amount of time. It was the single highlight of our dreary day.

The air hung heavy with humidity and the smell of fried food. Grandma Lena would only turn the air conditioner on when the preacher came by for a visit. The rest of the time she used ancient fans to push the heat around. My brother would sneak into the living room while my sister and I played dominoes at the big dining room table. Sure enough, tiny Grandma Lena would swat him on the leg and chase him out of the room.

"Get off my couch!"

Her ear was tuned to the sound of crinkling plastic. One night, as I sat watching an episode of Little House on the Prairie, I slid under the coffee table where it was cooler, lying on my belly. One of my feet happened to graze the bottom of the sofa, and the plastic gave a low moan.

"Get off my couch!"

My sister was the worst offender. She was the favorite of the Arkansas clan, as she most resembled that side of the family. Her status gave her temporary immunity, but there was only so much sofa sitting Grandma Lena could handle. She'd glare at my sister, her hands crossed over her chest in disapproval, until the tension was unbearable. Finally my sister could stand it no longer, and she'd hop off and run with me to the front porch. We'd sit in the wooden swing, swatting skeeters and making footprints on the wall, laughing at how silly it all was.

Grandma Lena's gone now, but I'll bet that couch is still out there somewhere. I wonder who finally took off the plastic and plopped down on it, pressing flesh to fabric, admiring the sheen of the pristine material. I wonder if it still smelled new.