Bumstead In The Mud Room

         I poke my hand behind the curtain and find the water is warm enough to enter the shower. My mind is a million miles away. I’ve been scat-singing “You are My Sunshine.” Pam and I came upon the song as she channel surfed the other night, and I heard her begin to sing along before she hit the button on the remote and switched to some Julia Roberts’ flick.

         Why the song comes back to me at this moment I don’t know. I remember it was written by Jimmy Davis, the Governor of Louisiana, or was it Texas? As the hot water hits my neck, answering the ‘which state’ question takes over my brain. I don’t live in an internet hot spot, so I can’t carry my laptop with me into the bathroom, and therefore I don’t have the answer at my fingertips, which are busy massaging shampoo into what is left of my hair. I make a mental note to myself to query Google when I am seated at my desk. It is then I hear a man’s voice outside in the hall.

         I know it is not the gravelly sound of Phil, Pam’s oldest son, but could it be Steven, her youngest? I’m pretty sure it’s not him since his first act on entering our house is to put a load of clothes in our washer, and that appliance is in the bathroom. Why is our washer, and our dryer for that matter, in the bathroom? Don’t ask; it is a fact of life in houses by the ocean and bay. Every so often I suggest to Pam that we build a small addition out from the little bedroom in back and move the washer there. It would be our ‘mud room.’ Pam always responds, “What’s a mud room?” I’ve explained this to her before but have come to realize that Pam needs a date with a neurologist to test her memory loss, but both of us forget to call for the appointment.

         A ‘mud room’ is a place where riders remove their coats and boots before going into the house proper. They are common in rural England, and for some reason, in Connecticut, or at least I’ve seen them in a couple of movies set in the Nutmeg state. Having a ‘mud room’ in Ocean Gate would serve little purpose; there’s no mud, only wet and dry sand, but I suspect the cachet of the phrase would add value to our house if we try to sell it. For some reason today, buyers will pay small fortunes for houses built on sand, and maybe a larger fortune for one with a ‘mud room.’

         The shower is not the time or place to think about the pro’s and con’s of building on sand, except to mention that people who want to live here should be used to strolling about on a boat. Some houses in our town list to starboard, others to port. Ours is sinking in the middle, but we are used to it. Thinking about the mud room is more important. After we move the washer and dryer, there will be extra space in the bathroom so I can put in a phone jack for an internet connection, and find answers to questions that arise in the shower, like who is the mystery voice.

         His words were muffled by the running water. Had I been Dagwood Bumstead taking a bath, I would have heard them clearly. Dagwood was always being interrupted by visitors when he was in the bath, and if it weren’t salesmen at the door, it was the telephone that was ringing.. As visions of poor Bumstead float in front of me, I realize the voice I heard must have been someone leaving a message on the answer machine. I want to kick myself. Had someone entered the house, the dog would have gone nuts. She makes a great watch dog but she doesn’t answer the phone. I doubt she’ll ever learn; old dog and new tricks is the operative phrase.

         By now I've turned off the water and am toweling off. More thoughts come to mind. I wonder why Dagwood did not have an answer machine, or why Daisy, his dog, did not ward off the salesmen who would call while he was in the tub? For that matter, didn’t he have children to screen his calls. Every time I see a Clint Eastwood film, Henry Bumstead appears in the credits as the set designer. Didn’t Blondie and Dagwood have a son named Henry? Lack of internet access by my bathtub means the answer is unclear. I have to depend on my failing memory.

         The only Henry I can remember in the comics of my youth is ‘bald head Henry.’ He was a boy of indeterminate age, and if I recall, he never spoke but had thought bubbles. Henry ran second to Nancy and Sluggo for the honor of being the least humorous comic strip, so I doubt he moved in with the Bumsteads, and I further doubt he is working for Clint Eastwood. This guy must be some other Bumstead.

         I’ve put on my robe and opened the door. The answer machine is in the room across the hall. It is blinking; I push the play button. “Hi, this is Jon Corzine. In the next few days you will receive an important letter explaining my plan for real estate tax~~~at this point I hit the ‘delete message’ function since I don’t think Jon left a call back number. I’d like to ask him how much a mud room would hike our tax assessment, but he probably doesn’t know. He’s never lived in Connecticut.

         As I plod up upstairs to our bedroom to get dressed, I mentally try to catalogue the questions that require answers, but I find I’ve forgotten most of them. Jimmy Davis is gone from my mind. It must be the altitude on the second floor, which is 21 feet above sea level. Now I’m wondering what a set designer does. I know where to find the answer; I’ll email Henry. Maybe he’ll agree to design my mud room.

Ocean Gate, New Jersey
November 17, 2005