What I Did on My Spring Break

Well, spring sprang. We've had our state of grace and our little gift of sanctioned madness, courtesy of Mother Nature. Thanks, Gaia. Much obliged. I guess it's time to get back to that daily routine of living we like to call normal.

David Assael

Remember this photo? And my post on my great housekeeper skills?

Tuesday, me and Ian - eight hours spent shoveling out the study where three boys have unwound and only spot cleaned for (dare I say?) years. Keep in mind, in the above picture you can't see all the junk (i.e. baseball uniforms, golf clubs, school work, old computer games and the boxes they arrived in, soda cans, underwear) lurking in the crevices beside the couch and computer - or the floor. Nor the mountains of dust on the books. I won't mention the old rug. The result?


Tell me it looks better. Please. I know it smells much better.

Also, youngest son is mad at me. After the first day of NCAA basketball playoffs, I'm 12 for 16. Ranked 143000 on ESPN. Told him when we picked our brackets not to mess with me. That I knew how to do this. He scoffed at my choices. Hmmmph. No scoffing going on today!

Also, spring has sprung in Texas. The Bradford Pears have been most beautiful.


Tomatoes once again planted, dauntless in memory of my previous thwarted attempts.
Cabbage salad soon available for dinner.

Had a pomegranate martini for lunch the other day -- and a nap in the afternoon.

With a clean study, a trip to the library, two miles swum at the YMCA, and 8 high school baseball games behind me, once more to the lake for the remaining two days of vacation, my copy of EB White's essays under my arm. Next week, back to work.

Housekeeping? Moi?

My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.
Erma Bombeck


After reading Gilead, I had Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping novel somewhere on my books-to-be-read shelf. I didn't await it with glee. The title scared the crap out of me. You see, I'm not the best housekeeper. In fact I can pretty much find everything else to do rather than clean my house, i.e. the books shelves in the study where my youngest son does his homework. (Note the presence of the old encyclopedias. What does one do with a set of those these days?)

Conversely, husband's side of the family are cleaning freaks. I can visit his mom's house and use the garage floor as a plate for my dinner, no thoughts needed. At my house, I push aside a pile of papers on my kitchen table to find a spot for my plate. I dare not think about when it might last have been washed off.

I admit it. I'm a crappy housekeeper. Oh, I have times when I sweep, dust, vacuum, mop, sort, toss, scour, and pile papers into a neat stack. Few and far between occurrences. I am easily distracted by the New Yorker open to a new article on top of the pile on the table, or a handwritten letter to send, a garden to plant, a friend to visit, or a novel to write.

Lest I say, you get my house as is when you come by. Which is why Marilynne's book didn't disappoint. Two young girls, Lucille and Ruthie, have survived their parents and grandmother and are passed off to their aunt, Sylvie, their mother's sister the "tramp". Or transient. She prefers the outdoors, danger, a trance-like atmosphere. Collects tin cans, newspapers. Adverse to housecleaning. When the younger sister, Lucille, decides on a more conventional life and moves in with her teacher, the authorities swoop in to see if Sylvie provides a good home for Ruthie. Sylvie cleans the house, but both decide this is not what they want. They escape over the bridge out of town - the railroad bridge no on else will cross, and enter a nomadic lifestyle. Very happy with it, I might add.

The message? Not everyone conforms. Not everyone is cut out for the cookie cutter life. The definitions of order are different for everyone.

I like that kind of thinking.

Although, all good things must come to an end. There does come a time when one has to break down and clean the damn house. My husband and I did that at the lake this past Saturday. Fall Cleaning, as it were. Supposed to do it last spring, but then the crowds came and, well, so much more fun to loll on the dock with a glass of wine than wash sheets, find out what's really under the beds, and scour showers.

We put our bodies to work non-stop. I must have done 24 loads of laundry. Bed pads, sheets, comforters, pillows, blankets. Took everything off the bookshelves, dusted, washed. All the windows, showers, toilets. Moved the furniture - vacuumed and washed underneath.

It looks mahvelous. Ready for the next round of 100+ visitors. At least the upstairs.

We have to spend next Saturday doing the bunkroom and downstairs windows. The old fashioned horizontal kind you crank. Like Venetian blinds, only glass. Plus the downstairs shower where all the hundreds of kids rinse off. Yeck. (That job is for sale if any takers.)

But that night, after we declared the day done, my husband and I lumbered onto the dock to watch the sunset. Our bodies dropped into our chairs and we wished the entire wine bottle plus another had found its way down with us. Although our wearied limbs tingled with overuse, we did have satisfaction in the order and cleanliness of the cabin behind us. Only a momentary tingle for me, I'm certain.

Now, will someone come shovel out the house in town. The one where all the junk of life lives.

Meanwhile, share the sunset.