You learn early in life that there is a right way and a wrong way to do things. More often than not, it’s your mother who sets the rules.

Then you leave home and begin to travel down life’s path on your own, only to discover not much has changed. For Mom taught you to . . .

Leave Everything A Little Better Than You Found It

     Not again, Mom, I‘d think every time we visited someone’s home. She’d direct me to put the pillows back in their proper place on the couch when we got ready to leave. If we’d eaten at the dining room table, my “To Do List” included bussing the dishes. I even had to make sure I put the toilet seat down after going to the bathroom.

     In retrospect, this wasn’t a bad thing. It helped me become the man I am today. Believe it or not, the lessons and lists remain a part of my life. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is K.C. Martin. Why the initials, you might ask? They were Mom’s way of keeping me on track. She told me they stood for “Keep Clean.”

     Her strict requirements applied to both our house and those of others, to gardens, cars, restaurants, bowling alleys, and amusement parks and, above all, to me and the words that came out of my mouth. She ruled my world.

     So, what have I become? I’m a clean freak, a perfectionist—a duplicate version of TV’s “Mr. Monk.” I quiver if anything has been left out of place. I’m not the easiest guy to be with, but nobody loses anything when they hang out with me. When we get ready to leave an establishment, I peruse every square inch to ensure nobody in my party has left anything behind.

     This was the existence my mother created for me—the one I’ve wrestled with for over fifty years. It has impacted every aspect of my life, especially my ability to find love. Let me take you on my journey and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

     We need to return to 1983. As a sophomore at St. Lawrence University in Ithaca, New York, I lived on campus in John F. Crowley Hall. One evening, I left the dorm and trudged down the snow-covered sidewalk and made my way to Isadora Blanchet Hall, the major girl’s dormitory on the grounds. I grabbed the handle of the large double glass door entrance to the dorm, opened the door, and walked up to the receptionist sitting behind a huge semicircular marble counter in the lobby. 

     Standing tall, with my shoulders straight, I stated, with perfect diction, “Please let Miss Jennifer Welling know that Mr. K.C. Martin would like her to join him in the lobby. Thank you. And, by the way, the pen for the guest sign-in book has not been put back in its slot.”

     She gave me the weirdest look. Then without responding, turned away and rang Jennifer Welling’s room.

     “Miss Welling will be down momentarily. You may wait by the elevator.”

     “Thank you.”

     As I waited, I straightened two pictures that hung askew on the wall adjacent to the elevator door and pulled the weeds from a large plant in the silver and gold pot to the left of the door. With everything in order, I waited for the door to open.

     When it did, Jennifer pranced through it and smiled. My heart began to flutter. As she neared me, I took her hand in mine, looked her straight in the eye, and asked, “May I straighten your scarf? It’s coming out over the collar of your jacket.” If looks could kill, I would be a dead man next to her feet on the dormitory floor. You might have guessed; Jennifer and I did not make it as a couple. We barely made it through the evening.

     I graduated college with honors. What else would you expect? Mom would not have had it any other way. With a major in English and a propensity for correctness, I got a job as an editor with a publishing company. I almost blew the interview when I told the Personnel Director the apostrophe was missing in the title of an article he had on his desk. He glared at me and blurted, “You better be right, Mr. Martin, because I wrote it.” As always, I was. Mom would have been proud.

     Having secured gainful employment, I was now ready to achieve the major goal on Mom’s, no, my list—finding the woman of my dreams. She had to be perfect in every way. And Mom had to approve of her.

     Things didn’t go well the first couple of times. Sherry and Yvonne objected to my interview questions. It didn’t matter, for their answers wouldn’t have received Mom’s approval anyway. And then Gloria walked into my life. She dressed like a fashion model, spoke perfect English, and knew all the right answers to my questions. She even got through Mom’s inquisition. Shortly thereafter, Gloria became my wife.

     But again, things didn’t go as well as they should have. She left dishes in the sink, food on the table, and clothing on the floor. I pointed out her missteps, at first being quite subtle, but later becoming more direct. I tried with all my might to help her understand what a good wife had to do. I even demonstrated by straightening up after her. This made her furious. She ranted and raved, slurred her speech, and looked very much like a woman in distress. 

     Then one evening, as we watched TV, to my relief, she blurted, “I’m leaving.” And once again my life was back in order. When I told Mom, she assured me I’d done the right thing.

     The years passed all too swiftly. I sat at my desk at the publishing house and stared out my window at the trees blowing in the fall wind. I straightened my desk so everything was positioned where it should be, exactly two inches apart and facing straight toward me. My thoughts wandered, Mom died two years ago. Her demise saddened me. She had been my mentor. She provided the strength I needed to get me through two marriages.

     The ringing of my phone interrupted my concentration. I picked it up, and my secretary murmured, “Mr. Martin, your wife is here.” I placed it back on the desk and watched as the door opened and Maureen, my third wife, entered. We got married less than a year before my mother died. She and Mom didn’t get along very well.

     Maureen took one look at me sitting at my desk and groaned, “Darling, the part in your hair is crooked, your shirt collar is crumbled, and there is dust on your desk. Please sit up straight.”

     I bowed my head and muttered, “Yes, Mother.”

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.