Why I still shudder at the sound of a vacuum

When I was a kid, I was blessed with a loving family and two amazing parents. My father taught us a lot, and my mother was loving and attentive (and controlling, and …-oh, wait, nevermind. Tangent).

There was one wicked spell, however, that overcame her every time she turned on a vacuum. She transformed from loving mother, to demon of terror.

Seriously, just ask my sister. Ask my father, even. If he came home from work and found her vacuuming (even if he’d been out of town and was exhausted), he’d simply wave to us silently, turn around, and walk back out the door, escaping before she could notice him. I often wondered why he left us there to suffer, instead of whisking us away to wherever he waited out the storm, but perhaps that place had an age limit. Who knows.

Sometimes I would sit on the couch, cowering and shaking, while she ranted and screamed and the Hoover howled. Once the evil cleaning frenzy took her, she was nuts. If she felt our books were not arranged right, she might tear every single book off of our considerably large bookshelves, throw them all onto the floor in a pile, and then scream at us to clean up the mess. She was normally a witty, charming, loving person, so I’m convinced that the sound of a vacuum cleaner simply drove her to madness.

I have grown up with a severe hatred/fear of vacuum cleaners. I'm not much of a housekeeper either - go figure.

I remember one weekend, mother and father took a short weekend trip together and Grandma stayed over to watch us. Ah, what a relief to have sweet, passive Grandma Bertha to do the vacuuming… well, it seemed like it would be a good thing, until she plugged it into a 220 outlet. Suddenly, flames, sparks, and smoke shot out the back of it. It was as if a rocket was trying to take off in the middle of the family room, leaving us to burn in its wake. She hefted that monstrous vacuum into the air and out the door before it could ignite the house, but it was frightening for a child, nonetheless.

At one of my very first jobs, Musicland, I was helping clean up one night. They asked me to vacuum and I begged to do anything but that. They thought I was crazy (probably right), but I begged to do twice as much work, at any menial task, rather than to vacuum. But, they commanded and I obeyed. Cringing, I plugged it in, and started to roll it over the carpet, the noise clawing at my nerves as the vile thing screached at me. Then the smell of smoke rose, for only a split second before the bang. There was no time to even switch it off. It exploded, there, at my fingertips. The fabric bag burst and there was a tremendous cloud of smoke and dust all around me. The cd racks were all covered in dust-bunny shrapnel. It was a nerve-wracking experience, but they never made me vacuum again.

The cleaning man is vacuuming outside and my migraine is building. My stomach knots up if I let him vacuum my office, so it can just stay dirty. I’m willing to vacuum at home. I bought that vacuum; it is not so loud and is in my control, tame. But, I still cringe when people vacuum around me.

Just thought I’d share that. I may have told you that before. Dunno