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Spring Cleaning That Sucker
March 15, 2002
I woke up the other night with a
feeling of anxiety, of foreboding, of impending disaster,
and circumstances gone very badly awry.
I looked at the clock, its rosy digital
face faithfully ticking away the microseconds of my life
4:30. Well, good then, I hadn't slept
in. I sniffed the air in the bedroom, cool and fresh from
the open window, and decided there was nothing there to
have disturbed my slumber in such a threatening way. A check
of various portions of my anatomy revealed a migraine neither
pending nor blossoming, no stuffiness indicative of some
unwelcome bug taking up residence, no incipient charlie
horses, no appendages prickling with restored blood flow.
In fact, except for a rather suffocating sense of doom and
a slight inclination to visit the loo, I felt pretty damn
fine.
What was it? I asked myself. What
had I been dreaming about? I rummaged around in the dim
recesses of my subconscious, feeling the gummy tentacles
of a dream slither and slide around in an attempt to evade
my focus. I had been back at Johnson's Crossing, that much
was clear. And it was winter
no, not winter; there
was no snow in the parking lot. But there was mud and slop
on the rug by the back door and cobwebs in the corners and
a buildup of debris at the back of the big gas range. So
not winter, but spring, and with spring
Oh my LORD,
no bleedin' wonder I had awakened stressed to the nines,
I had been dreaming about the Old Barn, as we had not-always
lovingly called our old JC Lodge, and it had been winter's
end and I had been about to begin spring cleaning that old
sucker!
It's been ten years almost to the
day since we sold the old place, time and enough to have
forgotten the eighteen hour days, the pans of burnt meat
pies, the oven that died just as we segued into the Labour
Day weekend, the wonky hot water heater
well, you get
the picture. And one would think that we would remember
our tenure as a good time, well spent. But one, as usual,
would be wrong. Because, much as we loved JC and the Old
Barn, it's not the singalongs and the happy Christmases
and the weddings and babies born there, that come back to
fill the dark hours when sleep is supposed to be knitting
up our raveled sleeves of care, it's all those other things.
Let me just refresh your memories
of the Old Barn.
It was a very large, very unlovely
two-story frame building, built from lumber reclaimed from
the Doubleya-doublya Two army camp that had occupied the
west bank of the Teslin river when we arrived at Johnson's
Crossing in l947. The main floor, thirty feet wide and sixty
long, had a long narrow kitchen, a long narrow dining room
and a large, spacious lobby. The second floor was divided
into eleven bedrooms and a linen room. At the south end
of the lodge, a bedroom-cum-storeroom measuring twenty by
twenty had been added on. At the north end, another attachment
was built, this one providing space for a laundry room,
a storeroom, and a tiny beer parlour-turned-office/parlour/playroom.
There were five bathrooms; thirty-five windows, about five
thousand square feet of walls that required washing, and
acres of floor, most of them covered with dark red battleship
linoleum.
And before we opened for business
on the first day of May, all the storm windows had to be
removed and the grime of winter removed from the more than
one hundred little panes of glass; every square inch of
walls and floors and ceilings would be scrubbed and buffed
and/or painted; the first of seven tons of flour, packed
in and piled in the old beer parlour; hundreds of souvenirs,
received and priced; the store shelves painted and restocked;
and the old, badly-designed Comstock-Castle kitchen range
taken apart and cleaned in a cauldron full of lye water,
heated by a huge blowtorch, its accumulation of grease and
carbon loosening the boiling and then scrubbed off with
a wire brush. The latter was a procedure that we called,
"boiling the stove," and the expression was a
JC-ism, synonymous with serious seasonal bouts of sanitation.
The big rug in the living area had
to be taken out and turned upside down on the lawn, it's
bottom spanked, it's pile brushed with the last bit of snow
that lay unmelted in the shadow of the lodge. All the heavy
bedding was washed and replaced with lighter summer coverings;
the curtains, freshly starched and ironed, the windowsills
painted; and the huge collection of African violets that
flourished on the east side of the building, repotted.
Small wonder I awoke feeling anxious,
eh?
When we closed in mid-October, it
was always with a sense of tremendous relief to be done
with the godawful 3:00 AM risings, tempered by a dread that
it would be only a few short months before we had to get
ready to start getting ready to do it all over again. I'd
look in the mirror at my baggy eyes, and at the dark circles
that reached almost to my belly button, and I'd think,
"Well, that was my last summer, it will take a bloody
miracle to go through it all again."
And all through the short winter
days, I kept thinking, "Oh golly it's the end of January,
it's the end February, no time at all till May
"
And then, without warning, the miracle would occur.
About the middle of March, I'd be
out for a walk and a big old motor home would trundle by,
some Alaskan racing home, Northwestward Ho! And like a computer
freshly booted and rarin' to go, I'd feel that little tingle
abaft my breastbone and I'd hurry home, full of pee and
vinegar, and eager to begin the enormous task of digging
out after a long, long winter.
After all these years, however, I
no longer have a love-hate relationship with summer, and
winter slips by nearly without remark. I have nothing to
dread. But neither do I have any real reason for that little
tingle and I want you to know, I miss it
even the spring
cleaning.
Back in my Heron Drive bedroom, I
stretched luxuriously and slid out of bed, a visit to the
bathroom taking on a somewhat more demanding importance.
Five minutes later, I slid right back between the warm covers
and snuggled down. Phil rolled over. "Whatime'zit?"
he husked.
"It's nearly time to start boiling
the stove," I told him, grinning with the sheerly mean
pleasure of knowing that I was sowing the seeds of another's
nightmare. "Go back to sleep, I'll call you when I'm
ready."
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