My room was clean, but then i needed something....
I was a young hopeful, and scared husband. One of my early jobs was trying to sell Kirby vacuum cleaners. Kirby trained their sales people, and assigned someone to shadow novices on early attempts to sale the products. My trainer was caring and energetic. We were taught techniques to get us through the front door into the homeowner's bedroom lifting the mattress telling a spooky tale of mites in the mattress. It was smooth the way my trainer/manager did it. I was awkward with it because I was raised to regard the master bedroom as special, as a sacred space for a husband and wife. I couldn't break through the taboo even though the job paid by commission mostly.
One of the homes we entered was real nasty, and dirty. We could not get past the lady of the house sitting in her living room. Something within her was stronger than every pitch, and approach, and unsettled something within me. She was an older, stout woman. Her complexion was ruddy; her arms beefy, and behind her glasses her piercing eyes were slits tearing through the fabric of our souls. What we entered into was disconcerting, and my boss was flabbergasted by something we couldn't touch, or fathom!
The husband who'd not said much saw how bewildered we were. After a long time watching us squirm he finally relieved our tension telling us a story explaining the messy house, and the stoic nature of his wife. She had been a prisoner at Auschwitz during World War II, survived cruelty beyond our comprehension, and how she avoided the gas chambers staggered both of us! She was a European Jew. As her husband spoke her dismissive hand gestures punctuated her memories saying, "This (her house) is nothing compared to what I endured. This is not dirty...."
The husband was attentive, loving and understood his wife. - Gregory E. Woods, Keeper of Stories 10.9.13
I was a young hopeful, and scared husband. One of my early jobs was trying to sell Kirby vacuum cleaners. Kirby trained their sales people, and assigned someone to shadow novices on early attempts to sale the products. My trainer was caring and energetic. We were taught techniques to get us through the front door into the homeowner's bedroom lifting the mattress telling a spooky tale of mites in the mattress. It was smooth the way my trainer/manager did it. I was awkward with it because I was raised to regard the master bedroom as special, as a sacred space for a husband and wife. I couldn't break through the taboo even though the job paid by commission mostly.
One of the homes we entered was real nasty, and dirty. We could not get past the lady of the house sitting in her living room. Something within her was stronger than every pitch, and approach, and unsettled something within me. She was an older, stout woman. Her complexion was ruddy; her arms beefy, and behind her glasses her piercing eyes were slits tearing through the fabric of our souls. What we entered into was disconcerting, and my boss was flabbergasted by something we couldn't touch, or fathom!
The husband who'd not said much saw how bewildered we were. After a long time watching us squirm he finally relieved our tension telling us a story explaining the messy house, and the stoic nature of his wife. She had been a prisoner at Auschwitz during World War II, survived cruelty beyond our comprehension, and how she avoided the gas chambers staggered both of us! She was a European Jew. As her husband spoke her dismissive hand gestures punctuated her memories saying, "This (her house) is nothing compared to what I endured. This is not dirty...."
The husband was attentive, loving and understood his wife. - Gregory E. Woods, Keeper of Stories 10.9.13
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| Oct. 7, 2013 |
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