More on the definition...

          I am going to Cape Cod for part of July 4th weekend. I am fortunate in that I have a lovely little cottage to stay in. It is the summer home of my late grandparents and there was a dual purpose in buying it. My grandfather loved sitting on the beach and my grandmother loved cleaning. Grandma used to tell us tales of when she and Mrs. Eleskevich used to “go up the Cape” and move all the furniture and dust behind it, take all the curtains down and wash them, and take all the mattresses out and beat them. My family has coined the term “Ukrainian Picnic” to describe this concept of a vacation scheduled expressly for cleaning. It was also for this reason that my grandfather would have been perfectly content to just continue staying in hotels on the Cape.

          My mother has inherited this zeal for cleaning and organizing and participated gladly along with her mother in the activities described. This particular gene is one that has passed me by. I seem instead to have inherited my Dad’s propensity to flee the scene, because after all, Ukrainian Picnics are not limited to the vacation home. An example from my Dad’s recent past: “When I pulled in the driveway, I saw the car mats strewn over the bushes on the front lawn and I knew there was a Ukrainian Picnic going on so I put the car in reverse”. Similarly, my roommates have always known when my mother has arrived to visit because the stairs have been swept and the spices alphabetized. Maura recalls me yelling from the kitchen: “Who uses cumin that frequently?!” My dad usually brings reading material in preparation for visits to my apartment. But on the whole, can I really whine about my mother’s earnest desire to dust, vacuum, and scrub sink stains upon every visit? To quote my aunt: “Mrs. Eleskevich’s are always welcome in my home”.