I was born clenching a white glove. It’s not the Belanger in me. It’s the Catahoula Borel. The Belangers look at a crumbed-up countertop, swirl a damp rag around for a few seconds, then they’re off to watch the birds fight the squirrels, or vice-versa. The Borels, on the other hand, have a personal relationship with that countertop, giving every square inch of it equal muscle time till they’ve worn it, and themselves, out.  Mama spent more time crawfishing on all fours with a rag in hand than she stood upright. As for me, I’m grateful, because cleanliness is next to Godliness. I believe that. 

Give me a can of Pledge, Windex and Ajax, accompanied by three white rags with blue string from the hospital, and outta my way. I look down upon those fools who’ve fallen into the abyss of new-fangled products and their empty promises and silly gimmicks. I like a good ol’ wet mop too, and not the kind that squirts and jets and mists. I like to hang mine out by the back door until it’s stiff as a box of Argo Laundry Starch. But I mostly use The Borel Technique of dish towel-padded knees for better sliding purposes. 

But my constant companion for more than 40 years has been an Electrolux Super J Canister. Once, while sucking up drawer debris, I sucked up a black sock. In order to get the sock out, I shoved a window mullion down its throat, then in order to get the now broken mullion out, an assortment of household items were crammed down there for good measure. When I exhausted all avenues and myself, I needed yellow crime tape to secure the area. Nothing ever came out the other end, so I paid an emergency visit to the vacuum cleaner hospital on Center Street, where the owner shoved, banged and yanked a myriad of objects out, then finally, the black sock. I found his technique was fairly similar to mine. Only difference is he got paid.

 It’s on its second hose now and dons a used carpet attachment of a different color. The brush attachment has been super glued, and clings to dear life each time it’s asked to perform. With a missing wheel and a cord wrapped in duct tape, it shocks me every few seconds just to let me know its still got a kick to it. It’s like an old Electra 225 with three blue doors and the fourth one orange.  The only original part is the canister itself. Upon my return home after a trip, I was greeted with a broken coffee cup and lamp prism, a missing attachment and a vague husband. I did everything but staple flyers to telephone poles in town with a sketch of the attachment, a canister with a sad face, and the promise of a hefty reward.

When I die, bury me with cake and my Electrolux. If anyone finds my attachment, throw that in as well.  We’ll play house in heaven with all our original working parts.  The Super J will have a suction like no other, with an attachment that’ll clean corners fearlessly, and I’ll steer her with the vim and vigor I had when we first laid eyes upon one another. 

We won’t even need the services of Mr. Tee Bud, but it’s good to know he’s nearby, just in case.

 

PHYLLIS BELANGER MATA was born at the old Dauterive Hospital and grew up on Wayne Street. She is a 1974 graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy and is a chili dog “without the wiener” aficionado.