Most of us that grew up around here did so in homes that weren’t very big ones. They typically didn’t have fancy parlors, patios, breakfast nooks, or any of that other high falutin‘ stuff. But, no matter how small our houses were, they all had one thing in common - living rooms. Living rooms. To be frank, I’ve always wanted to kick
shins (or worse) of whomever invented them. They were by far worst room in house, and for good reason(s):
1. The name itself is a lie - “living room.” I don’t know about ya’ll, but at our house we were never even allowed to use living room. The sofa and chairs in there were best in house, and God forbid if we ever actually sat down on them. The best pictures we had hung on wall there, and usually a couple of really classy magazines like National Geographic or Life were laid out on coffee table. Everything was in there but people, and that’s just how my mom liked it. Ed Jr. said that living rooms were one of life’s mysteries, and to just leave it at that.
2. They were way too clean. Ours had hardwood floors, and they were always kept shined up. I learned not to even sneak around in there, as one winter afternoon I did just that and walked across slick floor wearing just a pair of socks. After a couple of steps I slipped and fell, which caused enough racket to wake up a rock. My mom came in there faster than Wimpy on a cheeseburger, and I quickly learned that my butt and living room did not go together. I wince even now thinking about it.
3. The only time you did get invited in there was when you had “special company.” Translated, that meant that you were only allowed in there when either a politician or one of your mom’s relatives happened to be there. I was always amazed that these people were allowed to lounge around in chairs, and could even spill stuff and get away with it. My mom even laughed sometimes when they did.
It was even worse when visitor involved was a preacher. That meant that you had to get all dressed up - at a bare minimum you’d have on your Sunday pants, a stiff white shirt, and a tie. You even had to brush your teeth before he got there, which always galled me, especially if it was an afternoon visit. When he showed up, you had to sit on some old, stiff-backed chairs that you wouldn’t have electrocuted a convict in. And, sitting there was all you were allowed to do, as you had been instructed beforehand that you were to be “seen and not heard,” and that was it. End of discussion.
