Mary Vandever

There are a lot of misguided people who operate under the erroneous belief that I am a source of unlimited wealth.  I have no idea where they get this impression.

I am always getting phone calls with energetic voices telling me, if I am the homeowner they have great news concerning any necessary repairs, upgrades and amenities I should not have to live without.  They can give me a free estimate on redoing my whole house in the latest professional style, all 100% financed.  Representatives are conveniently in my area at this very moment.  There is no cost or obligation.

“No, thank you,” I say.  In a tone of disbelief, the caller wants to know, “How can you turn down a free estimate?”  

I was caught up in the free estimate trap, once.  Now those two little words scare me.  I have a vivid memory of one such phone call when I surrendered to the free estimate coupled with no obligation temptation dangled before me.  I wanted a new window for my living room.

The representative arrived almost immediately with clipboard, tape measure and sharpened pencil in hand.  Frantically measuring and jotting down the results, the Free Estimator told me very bluntly several sheets of paper and a considerably reduced length of pencil later, that my home sweet home was literally on the verge of collapse!  Showing me the figures, which included a complete new roof and plastic braces, haste was of the utmost importance.  I could get 100% financing after an appoved credit check, the cost of which would be added in the 100% financing.

I was in tears.  “But, how much is the window?” I asked timidly, daring to hope that my house would remain intact long enough to survive one repair at a time.

“Oh, we don’t do just one,” came the reply.  “It’s a package deal.”

I am sure that it was at this point I suggested to the Free Estimator that he was probably needed elsewhere and of course that speed was necessary. 

I have good news.  My house is still standing and the window still works.

I received a post card in the mail. Final Notice. Your warranty has expired. The first time I received the alleged final notice it was a bit jarring. It conveyed finality, termination, the ultimate end. Deep down, I did not want to have to buy a new warranty but their urgency would have me believe that the product would disintegrate immediately if I didn’t renew.
On the other hand it sounded promising. I would never hear from them again. I decided that my decision did not have to be rushed. I could take time and give it some thought. They will never know that I took extra time to make my decision or will they? I didn’t think so. Time passed.
It has been about a year and I get a post card regularly informing me that this is my FINAL NOTICE. It’s not quite as jarring as the first one but now I have to wonder what it will mean if they stop sending me final notices.
The same thing applies to catalogs. There is a big gold or red sticker on the front cover that informs me that this is my LAST CHANCE. Order today to keep receiving our catalog. How great is this? I won’t have to worry about last chances anymore. I dared to hope. That was umpteen catalogs ago. They just keep on coming and coming and coming.

Sometimes wash day is a disaster. When this happens, I descend into melancholy remembering the good old days.
Most of the first half of the 20th century was a dedicated drive to improve the wonderful world of clothing and the care thereof.
One of the earliest lessons my mother taught was to always look for the Sanforized™ label. Named after the inventor, Sanford L. Cluett, a patented process to permanently preshrink cotton or linen cloth before making it into apparel, was our guarantee that the clothing we had purchased would remain the same size after washing it. Materials that did not bear that label were subject to shrinkage meaning it might shrink a little or a lot. This incredible discovery took much of the guess work out of the buying and caring for one’s wardrobe.
Another material tag to be alert for was the word “colorfast”. This wonderful innovation meant that the material would keep its original color without fading or running. Colored clothing could be washed in the same load saving time and effort. These two labels took a lot of the horror out of wash day.
I remember the absolute thrill of PERMANENT PRESS! What a privilege to live in the 20th century with all the improvements made to enrich the lives of launderers. I could remember slaving over a hot ironing board wishing that some kind of magic formula could be dumped on the clothes basket and all the clothes would iron themselves. Now with the dawn of this new and wonderful process, taking care of the family’s clothes was not such a dreary task.
Fabric softener wiped out static cling. A box of detergent, always new and improved, was included with each new appliance sale. Wash day worries were a dim memory. Ironing boards were sold at yard sales for pennies. Only a few stores even had irons. I became comfortable knowing that things could only get better. Perhaps in a year or two we would only have to hang our clothes in a special closet, easy to install and economical to maintain, where they would be cleaned with sound waves. Wash day would be eliminated altogether.
While I was basking in the world of possibilities, reality took a nasty turn. The world was changing—changing in a backward direction! I noticed that a really cute blouse I had purchased had become rather tight just after laundering it. Rather tight, my foot! It was half the size of what I’d purchased. What a jolt. My mother’s words came floating back to me. “Make sure it’s Sanforized™.” Oops! It had been so long since I’d had to look for that label, I realized that I had gotten lax in my observance and of what that label conveyed.
Malicious wrinkles invaded my realm holding my clothes hostage. Irons and ironing boards started showing up in motel rooms and were being touted as an innovative convenience. Wash day assurances of ease, worry free and time saving were being sucked down the drain with the rinse water.
As I take out of the washer my originally pale yellow shirt—now a gosh awful bluish green shade of blaugch—it is even more apparent that things are indeed digressing.
I weep at the outcome of this descent into the past. Why? Because, I remember the old wringer washer and the clothes line, the flat irons and static cling. I really don’t want to think back any further than that.