Could it be that 'my way' wasn't exactly the 'right way' after all?
BURTON W. COLE, COLUMNIST
By Burton W. Cole
Now that I'm single again, I am free to accomplish tasks in the way that makes sense. To me, anyway.
My wife, Terry, who passed away last month, always insisted tackling projects “the right way,” which involved too much unnecessary fuss.
If, for example, we're going to put the little air conditioner in the bedroom window, just open the window, chuck the unit in there, and feel the cool. Seems right to me.
Instead, my temperature rose while Terry fastidiously cleaned the air conditioner (didn't we just do that when we put the unit away in October?), wash the windows inside and out (ditto), vacuum bug carcasses out of the window frame (double ditto), research what the CEO of the manufacturing company eats for breakfast (OK, I made up that one, but that's how all this wasted time felt to me), and finally install the unit (unless we needed to rewire the house or paint the walls or do the dishes first).
Ah, yes, dishes. It drove me nuts that before we could go anywhere, any dishes in the sink had to be washed. It was the right way.
"They'll still be there when we get back," I snapped.
"And they'll be layered in green fuzz," she said. "I don't want to come back to that smell."
Over the last month, I've noticed a distinct aroma coming from the kitchen. It's the fragrance of bachelorhood.
Could there possibly be something to this so-called "right way"? Naw, couldn't be.
Before I married Terry, I only wore dirty clothes in cases of grave emergency, such as an important playoff game on TV on laundry night.
After we married me, Terry banned me from washing clothes.
"They have to be sorted by color, material, texture and temperature. And check the tags!"
"There are no tags," I said. "They scratched my neck so I cut them out. Plus, I bought all gray socks and boxers. No whites to worry about. I jam it all together, wash in cold, and everything comes out just fine. That's the right way."
"Get out," she said.
I could only cook when Terry wasn't home. She deemed all my dishes delicious ä unless she watched. You'd think she'd never poured sauce from a bottle that's label fell off three years earlier. It's still safe. I'm pretty sure.
She even laid down certain rules about the right way to mow lawn, even though I'd been mowing that very same lawn for 20 years without her opinions. You nick one little flower... flowerbed... OK, a path right through the azaleas, and suddenly a whole new list of "right ways" crop up.
Now I'm free to just get a thing done, my way. But the bug bits littering the sill bother me. And what are those smudges on the window?
Sigh. I'll be right back with the Hoover and the Windex.
OK, Teresa, I see that smug smile on your face from all the way down here on Earth. As usual, you were right and my way was... well, not as right.
Oh, and the CEO prefers Cap'n Crunch for breakfast even though his doctor recommends fried eggs and half a grapefruit in the morning. I learned that while researching how to best clean the AC filter.
Your voice remains very alive in my ear. That's the right way, isn't it?
P.S. I miss you.
Remind Burt of the right way to vacuum the floors at burton.w.cole @gmail .com or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.