On Cleaning A One Hundred Year Old Basement

     Page Seventeen.
     The Shapiros move to Cleveland in 1972. They moved into a large 1914 colonial with much architectural detail. (The Victorian, over-sized leaded glass windows on the landing between floors one and two are what sold Lena on the home.) They've been renovating ever since.
     Their basement has been cleaned, straightened, organized or prayed over three times since moving in: once in the '80's once in the '90's and once in the winter of 2012-13. I'll give you one guess who's done it all three times.
     The first two times it was lots of kid stuff, i.e. games and toys. Those first two times I also lived there. I spent days in the basement just cleaning and organizing. And of course, the moment I was done cleaning, there were all these boys rushing down excited about the prospect of messing it up again. Also, those two times I wasn't really allowed to throw too much stuff out. The general consensus was that old stuff could be sold or given away. Therefore, I really straightened up more than anything else. This time around it's primarily renovation materials. And I'm throwing crud out too!!!
     When I moved out in '93, I left some stuff in their basement because I saw my life as still being somewhat transitional and they didn't mind storing my extra furniture. Lena called me a couple of months ago, October, '12. "We're going to have the basement cleaned and emptied, Jeremy. Would you mind coming by and taking your things?" So, starting the following weekend, I went over and began some indoor archaeology. I took a little home and threw out a little. Within a couple of weeks my remaining pile was miniscule. Lena then informed me that the fellow who was supposed to clean the basement had hurt his back so the whole project was on hold anyhow. I have a little extra time right now so I volunteered for the job.
     Mr. Shapiro and I agreed that we could donate loads of stuff to Habitat for Humanity. I hired a friend to help me and the two of us tightly packed up a U-Haul and drove off to Habitat. They promptly turned us away, saying the stuff was too old. We then drove back home and emptied an entire 14' U-Haul onto the Shapiro tree lawn just to have the Cleveland Heights garbage men remove it all. I tell people that we drove from the Shapiro backyard to the Shapiro front yard via Lakewood, Ohio which is where Habitat is located. It was very frustrating. (If you ever want to donate anything to Habitat for Humanity, I'd suggest you call first and inquire as to whether or not they want it.)
     I'm still in the middle of this project. So far, I've found one mummified mouse. How he got mummified, I don't want to know. The basement is mostly emptied of junk, now it's primarily organizing and cleaning. But, I haven't yet tackled the work room. God help me with that one. Anything might be lurking in sawdust.
     I start my newest paid adventure in February (I'll be managing a beauty salon) so I better get a move on. 
          

Beef Stroganoff? Child's Play.

     Page Sixteen.
     I do have some kind of nerve. I'm this little pipsqueak hired to be the help and suddenly I'm destroying the party food. But I do know what I'm doing in the kitchen. Don't ask me to evaluate the food if you don't want me to answer with actions not words.
     Winter: early '83. A wonderful Salon: Alpha-Omega client who I was particularly fond of hired me to be the party help at her mother's birthday party. Jenny's husband picked me up at 5PM and they acquainted me with their beautiful Shaker Heights kitchen. (Sidebar: that home is right around the corner from where I've nannied and cooked the three little princes since February, 2011.) The Beef Stroganoff was simmering upon my arrival. I was introduced to Mom, the guest of honor, and then I was told of my duties. The party got started and I washed cups and prepared salad plates. It was a modest sit-down dinner, 20-25 or so.
     Prior to serving time is tasting time. So long about 8, the guests start filing into the kitchen to sample the Stroganoff. Everyone needs to make sure that it's just so. Everyone tastes. Everyone hems. Everyone haws. 
     "Hmm. It's good but... It just needs something. Do you know what it needs?"
     "No. I don't know what it needs. Maybe she knows what it needs."
     "No, I don't know what it needs. Could it need more of this?"
     "No. I don't think it needs more of this. I think it needs more of that."
     I'm sure that NASA didn't put as much thought into the Apollo flights as was going on in this Shaker Heights home over that Stroganoff. Finally, Jenny said "Jeremy, you know food. Will you sample this and tell us what it needs?"
     I sauntered over and tasted. You could have heard a pin drop. Didn't say a word; just took a couple of steps to my right and picked up a full but opened bottle of Robert Mandavi from the gleaming countertop. I proceeded to pour most of the bottle into the Stroganoff. I then tasted again. "It's done." I declared. Jenny was white as a ghost. She tasted again and said, "That's just what it needed. Thanks, Jeremy."
     The party proceeded, all the guests were well fed and Mom had a good time. I did a fine job and Jenny gave me a large tip. She'd hire me again and recommend me to others. I was a little pipsqueak, but I do know food.

Spanky

     Page Fifteen.
     The Shapiro twins, Scoot and Skedaddle, had a best friend, Spanky, who lived down the street. Spanky was a darling blonde boy who may as well have been a fourth son in our house for all the time he spent over. Spanky had an older brother whom I really didn't know but his parents and I were quite friendly.
     When Spanky and the twins were in about the tenth or eleventh grade I received a phone call from his mom. "Jeremy, would you consider staying with Spanky for a couple of weeks, next month, while we go away on a trip?" Seems that Stephanie had already called Lena Shapiro to make sure it would be okay to steal me for a couple of weeks. They'd agreed that I could sleep over Spanky's and tuck him into bed at night no problemo. The only complications on the Shapiro end would be when I had to do my usual things back at their ranch: the family laundry and light house-keeping, both of which they felt could be done anytime during the day; and feeding the boys on Mondays and Thursdays which I could do as usual and simply tow Spanky along.
     Stephanie further explained that I was the "compromise." Spanky didn't think he needed any old, stupid babysitter as he was 16 or 17 years old. Parents disagreed. Gee, I wonder why? So in the middle of the ensuing fight, my name somehow came up as being a possibility. I was a responsible adult(!?!?), which made Parents happy but yet I was somebody whom Spanky was quite fond of and whom he knew he could have fun with. After we made all the arrangements, I realized how much I'd enjoy the extra cash.
     It was a very pleasant two weeks. I'd never been in so many sections of their home before and marveled at their furnishings, art and decor. I also got paid to eat their food and watch their TV. Spanky and I had some quality time together which I still remember fondly. My only boo-boo was on a Sunday afternoon.
     We'd agreed that this particular Sunday would be date night and we planned to go out to a buffet place and chow down. Well, this would be when I'd learn that Mother's Day is the busiest restaurant day of the year. I simply didn't know. We went to a variety of joints only to be told of the 90 minute waits in each. Neither of us were up for that so I cooked and we went out another night before my stay was over.
     Actually, I'll guess we're talking spring of '91 here. So the boys would all have been finishing the tenth grade. I haven't seen Spanky since Scoot's wedding (2006?) But we're friends on Facebook. He's an elementary school teacher now and has a wife and a couple of kids. I think he's very happy. Stephanie and Mick sold the house after he graduated and built something new and contemporary way out east in Aurora, Ohio. I was invited there once for dinner and a tour. Then they sold that and retired to Nantucket. They'd always had a second home there for summertime. But they sold that and bought a compound where they now live year 'round. They were an exceedingly pleasant and charming family. 

Breast Cancer

     Page Fourteen.
     Late autumn of '08....
     My oldest sister spent a lot of time with the Stones when she was a teen. They lived a mile away, had a ton of kids and Mom was into dance. My sister, Louise*, was very good school friends with two of the daughters and had dance in common with Mom. So from the early 1960's, the Stone's home was one of Louise's homes as well. The Stone girls also spent a certain amount of time at our place. Which means that they saw me in diapers. (My diapers were always hanging somewhere around my knees according to EVERYBODY.)  
     Through word of mouth (which means it's a separate story) one of those daughters called me in autumn of '08 to help her and her family. Shawna had recently been diagnosed with Breast Cancer, was a full-time pediatrician, had three kids - two still at home, a non-emotional husband, a cat and a cluttered house. She felt that if she had some help with dinner and the girls it would give her a break so she could enjoy her life. She certainly knew my family and had been updated to my current resume. So, she called me and explained the situation.
     About two or three months after I started, she went in for her surgery. She'd decided to have a double mastectomy even though the ca wasn't that advanced. She felt that with her family history it was better to be safe than sorry so she took the radical step.
     Perhaps two days after arriving home, we were standing in the kitchen, talking about the procedure. Now, let me remind you, she had vivid memories of my naked two year old body Also, she was ten years older than me, so in her mind I was an old friend, regardless of the fact that I had no old memories of her. Additionally, anyone who has any number of conversations with me will eventually pick up on the fact that I have an aptitude for and high comfort level with medicine, simplistic and uneducated as it is. So midway through our conversation, she unbuttons her blouse to show me all her bandages.
     I've seen a lot over the years. I worked in the hospital and saw many bandages, wounds and various states of black & blue. But I simply wasn't prepared for her to show me what she showed me. And I guess my expression illustrated my discomfort. She immediately said, "I shouldn't have shown you my bandages, should I've, Jeremy?"
     "I just wasn't prepared."
     "I understand." With that, she buttoned back up and we continued our conversation.
     I've always felt bad that I was perhaps inappropriately uncomfortable. I certainly always try to be as supportive and empathetic as I can be to anyone who's having medical problems of any nature. It just took me by surprise. I'm positive that my discomfort was absolutely nothing compared to her discomfort, fear, anger anxiety, etc.
     It's now four years later. I saw her at temple recently and she's doing great. Just a couple more years 'till she retires. She said she's counting down the months. She wants to travel.


     *Incidentally, all names in these blogs are fake except my own. I do this to protect the guilty. Everyone knows my guilt so I don't need protecting. 

Fish Out Of Water

     Page Thirteen.
     Age nineteen saw me get my first job as a hairdresser. It was '81. Through connections I ended up working at a salon named Salon: Alpha-Omega. It was located in Rocky River, a far west side Cleveland suburb with a predominately well-to-do population. It's a very white, conservative and rigid community. It's also quite beautiful. I've always lived in Cleveland Heights, still do. CH is an inner ring east side community with a long history of Judaism and heavy racial integration. River has some stunning homes and property which juxtapose Lake Erie. CH has many neighborhoods with 5000 plus square foot homes, many reach 10,000. Both cities were developed during the Jazz Age. Culturally, they have nothing in common. Alpha-Omega was getting ready to open up a new east side salon in CH and hired me to work in the new location, once I was through with my apprenticeship, that is.
     I grew up in an old world home. My father came over on the boat and my mother had somewhat conservative beliefs. I grew up in a middle class environment but under no circumstances was it one which might be described as "Prosperous-Jewish-Consumerist," if you know what I mean. Retail therapy didn't exist, nor household bells and whistles. My particular Cleveland Heights neighborhood was very modest. It was just normal working people. Many of the upper-middle class Jewish families who settled in Cleveland Heights during the forties and fifties moved farther east to Beachwood in the sixties.
     Alpha-Omega catered to Cleveland's elite. The owners didn't care if it was rich west-siders or rich east-siders, just so long as they were in the social register. I started in July of '81 and the new salon opened in November of '81. (I took the bus to River everyday: two hours commute.) At the time of the new location's opening we were considered by Clairol International to be one of the three best salons in Cleveland with the other two in Beachwood. We were for the rich Wasps and Cleveland Heights and neighboring Shaker Heights had busloads of 'em.
     In spring of '82 I moved in with The Van Myms: ubber Wasps. Their family name is well known to American History buffs, general movers and shakers and various other blue bloods. I was the live-in nanny to people who were related to names which are American household words, in fact I met some of those people. Mrs. Van Mym, Amanda, told me that she recognized me from the salon when we first met. The VM's had one of those large houses in one of those extraordinary neighborhoods. Our next door neighbors had to have had 7000 square feet of 1925 ultra-luxury. We weren't far behind.
     I had to acclimate to living with and servicing great wealth. It was weird. Home and work were filled with people who I'd only read about. That's an element to both of those industries that receives far too little attention. Sociologically, I was fascinated. Talk about "Gorillas In The Mist?" This was the REAL DEAL. I truly was an outsider, but the level of kindness shown me, in both arenas was generally so great that I didn't feel as alienated as I realize today I was. They were saints actually. Admittedly, my basic personality is colorful enough and gracious enough that it carried me. Though I was so young and naive I could've made PeeWee Herman look like the host of Masterpiece Theater.
     As the years would progress, I would be grateful for so much of what I learned in those environments. Many of my vocational and avocational endeavors over the years have brought me into contact with people similar to those whom I met in the early-mid '80's. In fact, many people have mentioned to me that I behave like someone who's been around (and not in the bad way.) And they've been saying that since the '80's. They wouldn't believe how much of my apparently cultured background is really post-childhood.

Boys Or Girls: Who's Easier

     Page Twelve.
     I've Nannied eight boys and seven girls divided between six families during my adult years. Boys are easier. Now, off course, there are exceptions, but generally I've had closer relationships with the boys.
     When teenaged boys get angry and frustrated they say, "I HATE YOU!!! GET AWAY FROM ME! YOU DID THIS AND YOU DID THAT! JEREMY, WHY ARE YOU SUCH AN ASSHOLE?!?!?"
     When teenaged girls get angry and frustrated they say, "I'm busy."
     Boys are surprisingly more communicative than girls. At least that's been my experience anyhow. Again, there are exceptions, but generally this is what I've encountered. I know this goes against the stereotype of males being non-emotional and non-talkative. But I'm telling you that while boys are screaming and yelling they will in fact say why they are upset. Girls don't scream and yell in real life as much as they do in sit-coms either.
     It goes without saying, but I'll say it anyhow, that a male Nanny is going to throw a difficult to evaluate variable into the equation. How much of the childrens' reactions really is simply because I'm a guy? I'm also a non-traditional guy. These blogs are not being written by the Brady's Alice nor are they being written by "Chachi in Charge." I'm overly creative and overly nurturing, much more so than even the average person with a vagina, let alone one with a penis.
     Also, all of the moms of boys who I've worked for have told me that their boys are picky and emotional. The Shapiro boys took to me INSTANTLY and it wasn't 'till twenty years later that I found out they weren't like that with everybody. The two preteen boys who I recently watched for a few years had a long history of crying at the drop of a hat. And the three princes who I currently attempt to control would scare away Eliot Ness for all their emotional antics. (God help me when they hit puberty.)
     So clearly I'm given boys who are "special' but I'm "special." The six girls on the other hand were mostly very average. So perhaps I'm just seeing particularly nutty boys and they, by definition, will be more communicative. I can only speak from my experience.
     But then again, there are my nieces and nephews too. Of my six hundred nieces and nephews I've had close contact with four nephews and two nieces while they were growing up. And even there I'd say that the boys were mostly more communicative while raging than the girls. I still say that boys will say WHY they're upset more often than girls when in the middle of a tantrum. And if somebody actually listens, which I try to do, they'll be able to get into the brain more effectively.
     I've also primarily dealt with children from somewhat wealthier than average families, including my nieces and nephews. Additionally, the households I've worked for have mostly struck me as reasonably functional, sort of, somewhat, kind of, a little. Does this type of home produce a boy who's more sensitive and communicative? Or, really, is it me? You know, I could ponder these issues for pages. But I'm getting hungry so I'm going to stop and make my breakfast. Bye.

My First Caviar

     Page Eleven.
     I've been doing odd jobs since before I was born. I'm sure in one of my last lives I was a general contractor. In another past life I was a fix-it man like Emmett from the Andy Griffith Show. I also had to have been a bartender, a caterer, Doctor Doolittle, Florence Nightingale and Mary Poppins.
     The name Jeremy Gutow began floating around Cleveland Heights and Shaker Heights by the early-mid 80's as a soul who'd do anything for money. One day in November of 1987, I think, I received a phone call from a couple who lived a few blocks away. I don't remember from whom they got my name, it could have been a bathroom wall for all I know. They were having a Christmas party in a few weeks and wanted to hire me to be the party help. I'd keep the place tidy, help with the bar, stock the chips, keep the fireplace going - all the usual things. Ho hum... what a challenge. "Sure," I said.
     The husband picked me up in his BMW at the scheduled time and we drove the 5-6 blocks to the very gracious home which was slightly modest by Cleveland Heights standards. I met his wife, both were youngish and attractive. I don't remember now what they did professionally. No children.
     Let me back up slightly, I over-scheduled myself that day. I didn't have time to eat dinner and went to the party starving to death. That's a no-no, especially when talking about my appetite. My appetite is a book unto itself, a simple blog could not do it justice. And my appetite during the '80's was just over the top. I've since learned to manage it to a certain degree, though it's still rough. I've never been heavy though. Only since about 2005 have I begun filling out. I was positively skinny for my first four and a half decades. But brother did I eat. So I go to this party, where I'm the "help," starving to death.
     As they were showing me around, I noticed a large bowl that had a black mountain in it. I kid you not, they shipped Mt. Everest into their dining room and placed it in a bowl. I inquired, (I couldn't help myself.) "That's our caviar for the party. Please try some."
     I PROMISE YOU, THEY TOLD ME I COULD HAVE SOME!!! really, they did. So I had some, and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more. But then, I stopped. By the time the party was over, I probably ate half the mountain. They otherwise seemed please with my job, paid me and drove me back home. But they never called me back to help them again. Don't know why, just can't imagine.
     That was my first time eating caviar. Boy does that stuff go down easy. Whew, it's good.
     I've only made that mistake once. Never again did I go to a party starving, even a party where I was a guest. I'll go hungry, but I avoid arriving ravenous. I'm too rude when I'm hungry. Oy!
     Nowadays, when I'm offered the occasional help job, I'm considered extremely good at being the help. (I better be good, it's about sixteen notches beneath my current professional level.) I will munch while working too. I know that's considered somewhat unprofessional, but I figure anybody who hires me has already heard about my work habits and appetite so they know what to expect. It's almost like I'd be disappointing them if I didn't munch. Plus the fact, everybody knows I'm a private chef, so they all want me to sample their wares anyhow. It works out. But I'll NEVER forget that mountain of caviar, really, I won't. It was sooooooo good.