By Judith Ford
My grandmother, who was Dutch, did an incredible job of spring cleaning, every March, every year she was alive. No object and no surface was spared a scrubbing. Rugs were taken out and beaten within an inch of their threaded lives; walls were washed with a hard brown scrub brush. Curtains taken down and washed. Every closet emptied, every sheet and towel bleached and washed. Everything dried outdoors on a clothesline. In March, Wisconsin is still cold so things froze out there, pillowcases transformed into wrinkled boards. Socks turned into twisted sculptures. She washed every dish and pot and spoon. Then when it was all done and everything set back in its proper place, she’d cover the sofa and chairs and lampshades in the living room with plastic covers. She’d lay a plastic path from doorway to living room couch and into the dining room. When I was around 11, I asked her, finally, who she was keeping everything so clean for and when would she remove the ugly plastic. (I didn’t say the word, ugly, I’m sure). “The plastic keeps everything ready for company,” she replied. “But, “I protested, “Aren’t I company?” I had never once seen her living room without plastic. “You,” she explained, “are family. Not company.” She didn’t need to add that I, being a rather messy child, was one of the reasons she protected her furniture.
My mother didn’t do spring cleaning. She did like to open up all the windows on the first day the temperature rose over 50–to air everything out. I always loved that, coming home from school for lunch and finding the windows all wide open, the house looking like a toothless, eyeless caricature of itself, the air sweet and chilly. My mother hated being a housewife and did not cotton to cooking or cleaning. She did the minimums and stuck to the 50’s schedule that most of her friends observed: Monday clean and do laundry; Tuesday iron; Wednesday, volunteer work; Thursday, groceries; Friday, light cleaning (a lick and a promise, is what she called it); Saturday was the night my dad cooked burgers and Sundays we went to my grandparent’s house for dinner. My mother did what she felt she must but mostly without joy and often with many sighs. She did seem to enjoy ironing (which I so don’t get) and would sing while she ironed, in a voice like Ella Fitzgerald. Singing over the ironing and walking in the mountains – those are the times I remember my mother at her happiest. Not cleaning. Never spring cleaning.
Well, it’s sort of spring now and I am sort of spring cleaning. I’ve been putting hours in every week to clean my attic. It has to be done. We’re selling the house and moving to the country.
I’ve lived in this house for 28 years, married husband #2 after living alone here with my daughter for 5 years, moved that husband and his daughter in, had another baby, raised these kids until each one grew their feathers and flew off. Also raised a cockatiel, a parrot, four dogs and numerous gerbils and hamsters in this house. Can you imagine the debris? My attic had become a combination museum, closet (huge closet), and file cabinet. Treasures and cast-offs that have trickled down to me from three generations and two family lines. The leftover objects include outgrown clothes, games, books, and life directions. My very first poem, written at age 10. A couple of Jessie’s baby teeth, nestled inside the newborn bracelet she wore in the nursery: “Baby girl, Marks-Szedziewski, 2-19-78.” An envelope containing a curling wisp of very blond baby hair, Nic’s first haircut, 1988, a battered and faded pink pair of tiny toe shoes (mine, from 1955, I think; although they might be my aunt Jeanne’s). A hair curling iron (great-grandmother Nettie’s, late 1800’s). Aunt Jeanne’s bracelets from the 30’s. So glad I didn’t throw those away. Hundreds of notes from Jessie and from Nic: I Love You, Mommy. Mommy don’t tell anyone but I love you best. Thank you for being my mommy, You are the best Mommy, Next time you go on a trip, take me too. Mommy, I hate camp. Come and get me out of here, please!please!please! Nic’s version of Jingle Bells, written at age 4 with a few backwards letters, words scrawled across the page, Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way, Oh What Fun on Al’s True Ride, On the One on Holken Slay. Jessie’s school trophies, soccer and swimming, her camp and sports t-shirts, Nic’s academic medals for top scores in the state on the ACT and SAT at age 9 and 10, his IQ testing done at Northwestern U when he was 5.
The way I wept when the tester called me and told me the test results.
I wish I had known more back then how to feed his ravenous brain, his wonderful mind. So much I wish I could do over for him.
I will be 63 in a month. The past is truly the past. There are no do-overs and no time left for holding on. Time, instead, for letting go. For boxing up, and throwing away, for going to UPS to send Jessie her soccer and swim team t-shirts, to send Nic his Pokemon card collection. Handing the keepsakes over to my grown-up kids, handing over to them the job of remembering.
In the process of this sorting and cleaning, I’ve had to remind myself again and again to let go not only of the objects but the feelings. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve longed to have my children back in my arms, on my lap, longed for one more night of reading in bed with Jessie at age 7, one more night of long conversation at bedtime with Nic when he was 10. One more chance to see each of them for one hour during each year of their growing-up – one more chance to drink in the sight of them, their wispy hair, freckled faces, braces and missing teeth, to listen to their piping little voices more intently, memorize each one of them even more completely.
I had expected that cleaning out all this old stuff would help me clear the decks for this next chapter of my life, and yes, I guess that’s happening. I had anticipated reminiscing. I hadn’t anticipated the wave upon wave of memories to be so visceral, so wrenching, so expanding and swooping and full of love. I am not only clearing the decks; I am also rejuvenating both myself and the attic. Am going through some kind of death and resurrection here. Turning myself inside out and right side out again. Right side out and I must admit, a little trembly.
Spring cleaning is a piece of cake compared to this.
About Judith: Judith Ford is a psychotherapist and writer who lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She was red Ravine’s very first guest writer, with the piece 25 Reasons I Write. Judith’s other pieces on red Ravine include lang•widge, Mystery E.R., I Write Because, and PRACTICE – Door – 20min. Spring Cleaning is based on a 15 minute Writing Practice on WRITING TOPIC — SPRING CLEANING.
Very poignant. What a good mother you were (despite whatever flaws you think you had). The piece is so full of rich details that I don’t know where to begin. Beautiful writing.
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Powerful piece, Jude. It brought tears to my eyes.
I am so weepy lately as I live through a big transition time myself. I guess our entire lives are transitions, we are slowly marching through time, yet the significance of that march seems to hit especially hard at certain times. I love how you described this time for you: a kind of death and resurrection.
And wow, even though I remember your piece about your son’s special gifts, only now did it hit just how young he was when you began to see it. I hope he is doing well, and your daughter, too. Loved reading more about your relationship to them.
Moving and wonderful piece all around.
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Really relate to having the babies back in your arms again. In some slightly pre-empty nest anticipatory grieving years ago now, I went through a period of time when I couldn’t remember what my children had looked like as babies/toddlers. This naturally added intensity to my grieving, but then I had a dream and saw my babies in all their lit up glory, wispy hair and all. I realized that they live, in all their ages, in my heart and will be there forever.
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Susyc – I like that: “they live, in all their ages, in my heart and will be there forever.” I hadn’t thought about it that way. I remember reading years ago, when my first child was in Kindergarten, that the dirty secret about parenting, the one that no one tells you ahead of time, is that you will love your child intensely at each age and will shortly lose that child (that version of your child) forever. We lose them, in a way, over and over again, as they grow. Struck me as so intensely sad. Which it is, and isn’t. Thanks for the reminder. Yes, they do live forever, in all their versions, in my heart.
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Hey Bob – thanks. I do forget that mostly I was a good mother. Still am, I suppose. I loved my children passionately and also enjoyed them. As all parents do, I wanted to keep them safe always. No one can do that, of course. A hard thing to have to keep learning again and again. I think it is inevitable that parents go through these periods of regret when we look back at what we did and didn’t do and see these gaping holes. I know it wouldn’t have been good for my kids to never have suffered – too much protection makes for an unprepared adult. I will always wish I had caught them more often before they fell.
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Roma – In one of his books, Carlos Castanada has the medicine man talk about how he can tell by a person’s aura (spiritual body or something not visible to us non-shamans) if a person has been a parent. If they have, they will have a big huge hole in their aura, he says. A spot where they have been torn wide open. I get that. Kids rip us open – in good ways – they stretch us and teach us lessons we didn’t realize we needed. They enrich us immeasurably. And if we are successful, they leave us. We feel good (I feel good) watching them walk off on their own strong legs. But the good-bye’s sting.
My son, by the way is doing okay. He is 22 now, in the second year of a math PhD, teaching freshman calculus at U of Michigan and experiencing a “who am I” angst that is normal for his age. He was 5 when his first grade teacher referred him for testing.
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Jude,
I’m on the road in North Dakota, stopping to stretch my legs and I found your piece.
It is wonderful writing; I feel like I’m with you there in your attic, surrounded by memories and mementos. And your Dutch grandma. Wow! She was one cleaning machine. I’d like to see a house she’d cleaned (before the plastic came out!). I’m inspired by your act of passing things on to your children–to let them hold their own childhoods with you.
My mom said “lick and a promise” too. When people would call and say they were coming to visit, my sisters and I would be put on instant cleaning duty. “Give it a lick and a promise!” she’d say.
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Jude,
What a lovely piece. Compared to the reliving of one’s whole history, having to actually lift and move the objects is easy.
I have a chest full of letters that I have been meaning to go through and read one more time, cry, and throw them away. Letters from old boyfriends and lovers, the kind of thing that nobody else should have to look at. I keep putting it off… but now I feel inspired to take the job on. Love Freya
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Hey Teri- thanks for stopping by while on your journey. That “lick and a promise” – I wonder if that was a Midwest thing? Or a generational thing? It pops up in my mind whenever I’m doing what one of my college roommates used to call “lightning cleaning.” You know, when you scoop everything up, stuff it in a closet, wipe off tables and maybe run a vacuum real fast right before people come to dinner.
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Hi Freya – so nice to meet you here on Red Ravine where your paintings have appeared in the not too distant past.
Those old love letters…I found a box of those and just repacked them. No, wait. I did read one. That was plenty. I think some future snowy evening, in front of a cozy fire, when I am all alone, that will be the time to read and weep and burn them one by one. You are so right – no one else should ever have to see them. (and believe me, my kids would way prefer not to know).
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Jude — Loved this piece. I do remember your mom not loving the things she had to do as a “housewife.” I wonder if she’d have been happier born later with job expectations and career hopes. She taught me to knit, with big needles and big nubbly yarn. She took pleasure in that, I think. And yes, I get this death-rebirth metaphor around our children. I sank into a real despond after getting back from Abi’s wedding. I have no attic anymore, but a barn instead, filled with children’s art work and children’s possessions (someday I’ll send them all off, but shipping to NZ is too expensive!). And when we move from here, it will go, one way or another. Thanks for article. I truly enjoyed it!
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Alice – you are probably the only other person – besides my brother – who remembers my mother in the 50’s and 60’s. I love that you do. I ‘d forgotten that she taught you how to knit. The sound of her clicking knitting needles was the background music of my childhood. I wonder why it was (and still is) so difficult for me to knit? I think you’re right that my mom was pleased to be able to pass on this skill to you, her almost other daughter.
And, yes, Mom might have been happier if she’d been able to benefit, as we did, from the women’s movement. I remember her saying to me, after she’d watched a TV interview with Gloria Steinem, “I’ve been had.” Meaning she’d believed in the false myth that housewife-ness leads automatically to a satisfying life.
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Jude, isn’t it great to have friends who have known you all your life? They can remind us of things we’ve forgotten.
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Jude, I fell in love with the rich detail in this piece. Your list of museum and closet memory objects was full of life, even at the moment when you are letting them go. I think I mentioned when I wrote back to you that the list reminded me of the rich detail in The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. We read it in one of Natalie’s workshops and it blew me away. A short book, full of life and death.
The lines you mention from Carlos about parents carrying big holes in their auras makes sense to me at the spiritual level. I am never going to have birthed a child and will not know what that is like. But I can relate to the nurturing and loss of people, places, and family that are dear to me.
I’ve been trying to go through some of my old boxes of letters and memories, deciding what to keep, what to let go of. It’s interesting, the things I choose to keep. Usually they remind me of someone, a dear memory.
This was a great line, the way we learn the words to something when we are young, by sound:
Nic’s version of Jingle Bells, written at age 4 with a few backwards letters, words scrawled across the page, Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way, Oh What Fun on Al’s True Ride, On the One on Holken Slay.
Thanks for sharing your writing on red Ravine. Inspiring!
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After a day of intense politics, it was good to come home and read your story. I love how vivid your memories are expressed, how many of them we have shared. Parenting is a opening to so many level: our own past, our ancestry, our dreams, intense sensory experiences, relief and joy after anguish and grief. Thank you for publicly opening your attic boxes.
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Naomi – were you in Madison with the protesters? Or canvassing for recalls? Bravo!
Yes, you and I share all those baby (and beyond) years. You are among the few who remember me taking baby Jessie to work with me at The Counseling Center, nursing her during meetings. You also are the one who recently put me onto the idea of buying big plastic bins and sorting the memorabilia according to which child originated it. Jessie has two boxes, Nic has one, and Rebecca, bless her, had already gotten nearly all of hers out of the attic a few years ago.
There is also a bin for the future babe. Jessie’s American Girl Doll is in there and a few items my parents gave Jessie when she was little. Although I’ve shed 30 Hefty bags of stuff plus two carloads to Goodwill, many boxes remain. Good thing the new house has a huge basement.
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Bob – You are so right! I am deeply grateful for the people who shared childhood with me – and the ones who have known my kids all their lives, too.
A couple years ago, I shared some chapters of my memoir with my forever friend, Alice, and she surprised me by how clearly she also remembered the places I was writing about. There’s something so heartwarming about that. It validates that yes, I really was that long-ago child, and I wasn’t alone – she was right there with me.
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Thanks, Debra. Yes, I did read The Things They Carried but I didn’t make it all the way through it. It was so dense and so vivid. And because of where these guys were and what they were doing, it was unbearably painful. Your comment, though, makes me consider going back to it and finishing it, finally. Maybe.
Nic’s version of Jingle Bells made me laugh so hard, the first time he showed it to me, that tears poured down my face. (This reaction, I might add, puzzled him and puzzles him, still, I believe) It just tickled me. Therefore, I had saved about 30 xerox copies of it. Now I have just one. Well, two.
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Wonderful and beautiful glimpse into your world Jude. Thanks for sharing. Your an amazing writer, I especially loved the way you used the word ‘cotton’ when describing your mom. You’re so strong. I have great admiration for the way you tackled the attic. It has inspired me to try to do the same, I end up getting nausea and retracting when I see my families stuff they left behind.
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Thanks Anna.
Fortunately for me- or not – my family didn’t leave as much stuff behind as I collected myself during the 28 years of living in that house. I am (was – I hope it’s past tense now) a compulsive saver. A nostalgia addict, a hanger-on to memories good and bad. The part of the attic cleaning that required the most strength was remembering to keep moving, not lingering long on things like the kindergarten drawings or my Mom’s ten year sobriety coin from AA. Most of the memories were sweet ones and the ones that might have made me queasy had been aired out in many years of therapy. So much therapy. So grateful now that I spent all that time and money. Little did I know that it would help me these many years later with cleaning out my actual attic (as opposed to the one in my head).
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