My childhood ran the gamut of influences, be it the eclectic mix of music I listened to – “Three Dog Night,” “Johnny Cash” and “The Tijuana Brass Band” – or just plain household happenings themselves.

There‘s no doubt I was provided with plenty of memorable experiences when variety and hilarity made daily appearances, often at the same time.

Evidence of this assertion lies in the fact that I was raised with a unique third child (by virtue of maintenance) in our two-child home; the white wedding couch. This chesterfield required more care than the average toddler.

When we were growing up money was an issue, as it so often is, forcing my mother to “make do.” We all know that anything white is fairly impractical when you have a family, but her mind was set on a white, 1950s-cocktail-era divan that was divine. It was also elegant, pristine and mostly off limits.

As the years went on, much like people, the couch lost its looks, surrendering its status as the most attractive specimen in the room. It needed sprucing up, but getting it professionally cleaned was out of the question.

Not only were there logistical considerations but, yes, once again, the specter of financial challenge loomed. So many bills to pay. So much furniture to maintain. So many creative options.

The latter was a catalyst for a brainstorming session that brought about my mom's legendary idea that would be part of her weekly household chores until the davenport was dragged across the entryway to the pearly gates of Farewell Furnishings.

She would touch up the couch with white shoe polish, that heady smelling potion now pulling double duty in its preservation of my white tennis shoes and the aforementioned couch.

Now the biggest challenge in this scenario – and there were many – was that white shoe polish dries surprisingly slowly when utilized to cover several cubic yards of slick-materialed couch. This resulted in my brother and me possessing the buffest of thighs, as well as the dubious distinction of fastest-almost-sitter-downers in our neighborhood.

Along with our traditional family question when opening presents, “Is this really what it is?” whenever we were presented with a box that seemed to herald an appliance gift was added the question, “Is the couch dry?”

Not the usual childhood concerns, but then our house was anything but usual. After a time we gave up sitting on the couch, choosing the floor for its consistent state of dehydration.

In fact, I can remember automatically plunking down on the floor at friends' houses and they would look at me rather oddly asking, “Wouldn't you like to sit on the sofa?” It was all I could do not to issue my return query of, “Oh. Is it dry?”

There is a picture of me when I'm about five years old that memorializes one of the few times that I actually sat down on the couch. I'm in a beautiful, silvery blue dress, my thick bangs are cut short and somewhat crookedly, big brown eyes mischievously eyeball the camera and my mouth is twitched into a smile.

What I remember is that the couch was as damp as a lounge chair seat cushion after a pool party, and I couldn't wait to find a more comfortable perch.

Eventually all that was left of that white couch were layers and layers of shoe polish; and it had more cracks than a bad luck mirror, finally disappearing, probably to grace the local dump.

My father hated the settee from day one, and he was only too happy to get rid of it and buy something more practical. But my mom. I still think about the fact that even amidst the challenging circumstances that constitute family life; being a time-challenged, working woman in the 1960s and raising a family on a tight budget, she managed to grab and maintain class.

Whether it was good towels, or good food, or the good couch, she was always trying to make things better; something she still does to this day.

Diane Dean-Epps is a comedienne and writer. Contact her at www.dianedeanepps.com