Saturday Cleaning (This Week, a Lick and a Promise)

Saturday morning, 9:30… breakfast complete, the day’s chores begin.

The boyos clomp downstairs and begin chuddering around, packing up bins of clunking glass bottles and chingling tin cans.  They heft and stomp and chide each other. They are going recycling. They’ll drive up to the bins at the city barns, behind the new building at the College, and they will empty out the totes they’ve packed into Mark’s  trunk. They’ll stuff the aluminum and plastic and glass and paper into all the right compartments, pack up the empty totes, slam the trunk closed, and then they’ll head over to the bakery outlet store.

There, they’ll buy a couple of loaves of cheap white bread, a package of English muffins, a single serving peach pie, and a sleeve of little chocolate doughnuts. They’ll throw in two bags of cheese curls–the kind that are so cheesily powdered, they turn our lips and fingers disgustingly neon orange. (And still, I can’t stop eating them.)

The boyos might stop at the wholesale grocer, too, and buy little chunks of assorted cheese (cheddar, hot pepper, colby-jack) packed  in a baggie, a couple of long, skinny, pungent beef jerky sticks, a one-serving bag of nacho Doritos. They may find some amazing deals on General Mills cereals or frozen pizzas or canned kidney beans. Then they’ll pack their bags of goodies into the car and head over to DQ, where they’ll treat themselves to the five dollar lunch deal, complete with mini-sundae.

They have their Saturday rituals. I have mine, too. While they’re gone, I’m cleaning.

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I have already walked the dog, who, sighing, sinks into the couch, rests her chin on the overstuffed arm, and falls immediately into a deep, elderly sleep. I throw open the coat closet where I keep my cleaning arsenal. I pull down the Swiffer duster and go to my rag bag to find a couple of soft, worn, white socks. (One Saturday, I reached for the duster refills only to find the box was empty. I said to myself,–I really did,–“Well. I’m not going to be able to dustmop until I get some refills!”

An immediate cacophony raged in my head, the derisive roaring of generations of stern Scottish housekeepers howling at the thought that I needed to buy duster refills in order to clean.

Above the howling, I swear I heard my mother’s dismayed, determined voice saying, “Oh, just put a sock on it!”

Sure enough, soft old socks, secured on the flexible stem with a rubber band, work just fine for dusting ceiling corners, light fixtures, the curved wooden rims of mirror frames, the iron fretwork on headboards, and the always dusty ledges of window sashes.)

I learned that Saturdays were for cleaning from my mother. By the end of the busy week, our house felt heavy and and dusty and lived in, and we would wrestle the proper tools from the broom closet–a dust mop with a fluffy head of brightly colored yarns, the old damp mop loaded by folding clean soft rags into neat rectangles and feeding them into its pinching, clamping jaws. The canister vacuum was heavy and irascible; it had to be wooed and fidgeted out of the closet, and its long hose was always curling up on itself, reluctant to cooperate. We used clean cloths to dust the furniture, and we did not use polish, Pledge being a hoax perpetrated on slapdash housewives with money to burn.

I did not like to clean, and my mother, a perfectionist at times, often found my help more trouble than it was worth. She doggedly kept at it, trying to train a reluctant daughter who would much rather curl up with a book and escape to a different world than embrace the romance of a freshly mopped floor. But sometimes, in frustration, she would snatch the mop or the dust rag or the vacuum hose away.

“I can’t stand to watch you,” she’d say. “Let me just do it.”

I would slink off to find my book and a quiet corner.

But she, even when feeling her lug-headed daughter was just not getting it, sowed the cleaning seeds deep. I feel that same household heaviness on a Saturday in 2017 that we felt in 1965. My arsenal of cleaning weapons may be modernized, but it, too, is much the same.

I learned the ritual of cleaning from my mother; but I did not absorb so much the best ways to go about creating a  clean house. My first apartments were grand examples of cluttered mess.  I learned efficient technique when, shortly after moving to central Ohio, I cast about for work. A mistaken phone call came when I was getting very frustrated–a wrong number from a cleaning company tracking down an applicant. Well, hey, I said, I’d be interested, and they said, Sure. Come on down.

They cleaned banks, this service. At the training, in the huge main downtown office, they unveiled the tools of the trade, and taught their philosophy of cleaning. Make your tools work for you, they said. And clean from the top down. Vacuum first, then dust.

I was assigned two small branch offices to clean; I worked with a trainer for a week or two, and then I was on my own, terrified that I’d forget the security code or take so long in locking up that the police would arrive and haul me away for questioning. But the work itself became a patterned dance–arranging all the tools, dusting from the ceilings down to counter height, scouring the bathrooms with antiseptic cleaners, waltzing the mop backwards across the scuffed tiled floors until the shine returned, sashaying myself backwards out the restroom door. Then I’d vacuum; I quickly learned where the most convenient plugs were, the locations that would give me maximum play of the cord. I’d dust the counter-tops with a citrus-y polish, pack up the cloths for the person who whisked them away for cleaning, dump the vacuum, bag up the trash. I would do one final circuit, making sure I hadn’t missed spots or left a bottle of cleaner sitting on a countertop, and satisfied, I’d grab my purse and coat, frantically pound in the security code, and rush outside while the door snapped firmly shut.

It was hard work, but satisfying–and it was kind of fun to be locked inside the bank all by myself after hours. To go from workday clutter to shining surfaces in a two hour sweep made me smile.  Before too long, I got a teaching job and said goodbye to the cleaning company, but I’d learned a thing or two about efficiency that I applied at home.

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So, on this Saturday morning, armed with the socked-up duster, I start upstairs, at the top, smoothing away dust strands stuck in high corners, sweeping over the tops of picture frames, scooting dust from the blades of ceiling fans.  I scrub the bathrooms and dump towels and washcloths and rugs down the laundry chute. I sweep, and then, just like the old days, I do a little dance with the damp mop on the tiled floors, backing myself out into the carpeted hallway.

I vacuum the carpets, but today, I do not move the beds or chairs or vacuum the mattresses. Today we have an adventure planned for the afternoon–a lazy meander down a road we haven’t traveled yet, one that winds south down along the river–and I want the house done before we take off.  So, I vacuum the obvious surfaces, and use the duster to tease out the under-furze, sucking it up with my Hoover. Next week, I’ll make up for the laxness, for doing what my mother would call a ‘once-over-lightly’ kind of job.  “We’ll just give it a lick and a promise,” she’d sometimes say.

My younger self thoroughly enjoyed a lick and a promise days.

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No, I have not always been a dedicated cleaner. In fact, although I always liked a shining house, was comforted by uncluttered, gleaming surfaces, I struggled to reconcile that with a fledgling understanding of feminism. In college and just after, I felt guilty for tackling the cleaning and the laundry–Why is this MY job? I’d demand angrily,–and sometimes I would grab my book and defiantly sit reading, actively ignoring, or trying to ignore, the mess and the clutter.

But the truth was an awful, messy house gave me awful, messy thoughts. Aged twenty-four or so, an avid reader of Cosmopolitan magazine (the day the new edition hit the supermarket shelves was always a treasure day for me), I came across an article by a young woman executive in New York City who lived in a messy apartment. She wrote how defiantly she did NOT clean up–she was a liberated woman, after all,–and how disgusted a date was at her messy digs. And suddenly, she said, she saw her quarters though his eyes, and it became not an issue of gender equality, but a symbol of lack of pride and terribly poor organizational skills.

She did not date the disapproving man again–a little too stuffy, she wrote,–but she changed the way she looked at her living space. She became, she said, house proud. She made her apartment a place she was glad to come home to. She cleaned and polished and decorated, not to impress another, but to be good to, and caring of, herself.

Funny how an article in a frothy magazine could re-adjust my thinking. House proud, I pondered, and I began to clean to please myself and not to conform to anyone else’s standard. And later, when Mark and I got married, the division of labor fell into an easy, pleasant rhythm. I liked to cook, and he was happy to do dishes. He took over the laundry; I vacuumed and mopped; we changed the beds together.

On Saturdays, although he was always willing to pitch in if needed, he did guy-things, sometimes with one of the boys, sometimes solo. He handled the car maintenance, hung pictures, did yard work, took the recycling to the bins. He cleaned and organized his tools. I cleaned the house.

The division of labor seemed pretty fair and even.

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Today,  I work my way downstairs. I straighten and tidy; I vacuum, and the sighing dog runs away to another room.  I run a soft rag over the dusty surfaces of end tables.  I empty the vacuum’s packed dust-catcher. I replace the towels in the half bath and the dishcloths in the kitchen.

The house is cleaned,–licked and promised,–and the boyos pull into the drive,  go-cups in hand, plastic shopping bags looped over their wrists, kicking the empty plastic recycling bins ahead of them. They have Saturday morning adventures to share.

I mix up tuna salad, make myself a sandwich, change my clothes, brush my teeth, and then we are pulling the door shut behind us, and heading off to explore the backroads on a sunny February Saturday. The adventure is undergirded by the knowledge that we will come home to an uncluttered, organized house, with clear surfaces on which to set any exploration swag we gather,–a lightened, brightened space where we can kick back and relax, dissecting the week.

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“How we change,” I remember my father remarking, stopping in to see me shortly after Mark and I got married. He was remembering, I am sure, my messy bedroom, the chaos that was my first apartment in college. Now, the house was pleasantly clean, the cookie jar was full; we put on a pot of coffee and sat down for a visit at an uncluttered table, in some uncluttered time.  I was proud that he’d dropped in to find me organized, proud that I had mastered the art of caring, for my family, yes, but also for myself.

It’s funny. As a child, I needed to know that someone had it all under control–the house would be clean, there would be socks in the drawer. The cookie jar would magically refill. I needed that, but I needed, too, the teachers who dragged me out of my dependency on someone other, who nudged me into places where I knew I’d have my own landscapes under control. I needed to reach that place where I knew, having given my household terrain a lick and a promise, the promise would, eventually but certainly, be kept.

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