Slightly Retired

Published 1:00 pm Sunday, May 6, 2001

“The month of May is here, and I (maybe you, we) can no longer procrastinate on window washing. That’s what I’ve been doing whenever a nice day came around during April: Soaking up some warm sun; the windows could wait. Years ago, before TV, before computers, when glass windows sometimes had wavy lines and bubbles in them, storm windows were our front line of protection from cold, snow, wind, rain; they kept the heat in. Screens were our protection from mosquitoes, and all kinds of creepy, crawly creatures. Everyone, whatever age, pitched in with the considerable May chore of removing storms (as they were referred to) and putting up screens–taking down and putting up, cleaning, and washing, including the permanent windows, inside and out. An important time schedule was involved in doing the storm window-screen exchange. It had to be accomplished as soon as warm weather struck, but before the mosquito hordes moved in. It was the one time I was glad to have older brothers because the work was heavy and hard. It took a very long, warm, sunny day to get it done. Storm windows were measured and made by hand, with heavy duty wooden frames to fit tightly. A few of the ones downstairs in our kitchen and living room had arrangements on the bottom for letting in a small amount of fresh air in the event cooking smells got too bad or the wood stove smoked too much. My brothers did most of the heavy toting and were recipients of my mother’s rather heavy handed supervision. We were fortunate: Our house was a bit unusual in that both the storms and screens could be removed or put in place from the inside. It made the whole process much easier and safer. The average storm could weigh as much as 25 pounds, so maneuvering it up and down a ladder was difficult and a bit chancy.Hauling storms through the house had its problems as well, but from wherever she was, my mother kept an eagle eye on the process until all the storms were outside for washing with soapy water, dried and taken down steep cellar stairs for safe storage. Meanwhile, the screens had to be lugged up from the cellar to be leaned against the back of the house for washing, rinsing and drying, then carried to the designated window.Under penalty of death, the washers were never to wash off the symbols on the sides of the storms and screens indicating to which window each went. My mother’s voice frequently penetrated through the spring air to remind the washer of his responsibility.And where was my father? He made himself scarce becoming suddenly very busy answering calls, lots of emergencies. I knew intuitively that my mother was glad he was not there to interfere with her good management. I was also sure they’d had arguments over the way my mother suspended herself out the windows.The only cleaner used on the permanent windows was Bon Ami, and, to this day, I don’t know why my mother insisted on it. The Bon Ami powder came in a can and was sprinkled on a wet rag, not too wet, and the thin white paste then spread across the glass of the window, inside and out. When the paste had completely dried, it was wiped off with a clean dry cloth, leaving a sparkling window. My mother didn’t like ladders, and I vividly recall her sitting backwards on the sill with her legs inside the room, butt outside, hanging on with one hand, as we cleaned the windows, and tapped at each other with a finger to indicate a smudge yet to be wiped off. Even as a kid, I was scared for her. With each clean window, she and I would smile at each other, I’d raise the window and she’d wiggle herself back into the room. At some point during the day, the level of stress evidently would get too much for my brothers and a hose and soapy water fight would break out. My mother would lean from a window, loudly shouting threats and using words we didn’t hear any other time of the year. That evening at dinner, she would sheepishly apologize to her children, whereupon, my father would demand to know what she had said. When we told him, with much snickering and looking at the ceiling, he would repeat it, imitating my mother’s voice, and bringing on uncontrollable fits of laughter from us all. My mother would disappear into the kitchen, but not before we could see she was laughing too. Best of all, we could feel and smell the fresh air coming through the screened open windows. “