Sara Etgen-Baker--Spring Clean-A-Thon

Spring Clean-A-Thon

Sara Etgen-Baker

Photos courtesy of the author.

Granny's heirloom cedar chest

“I’m in the mood to do some spring cleaning,” Mom “I’m in the mood to do some spring cleaning,” Mom announced during breakfast. My brothers fidgeted in their seats, for they were not fans of Mom’s annual Spring Clean-a-Thon.

“Would love to help, but gotta run, Mom! I have basketball practice today,” my older brother said, hastily pushing his chair away from the table. “Come on, little bro, you’re with me. Remember, you’re the ball boy today.” announced during breakfast. My brothers fidgeted in their seats, for they were not fans of Mom’s annual Spring Clean-a-Thon.

“Ohhhhhh, uh…right. I forgot!” My younger brother followed suit rushing away from the table.

She looked across the table throwing me her woeful abandonment look. “Well, I guess it’s just you ‘n me today, kid.”

“I guess so, Mom…..” I replied, my voice trailing off. “So, where are you starting this year?”

“Hmmmm. Let me think. The attic! It hasn’t been cleaned out in years. We’ll have fun just you, me, and Mr. Clean,” she answered, a huge grin spreading over her face.

On the way to the attic, Mom stopped only long enough to get her cleaning supplies, her broom and dustpan, and some plastic trash bags. We stood underneath the rectangular hatch door, and she pulled the string dangling from it, opening the fold-down staircase.

“Be careful, Sweetie. The steps are narrow and a bit wobbly,” she advised as we cautiously climbed up the stairs into the attic.

Above us hung one bare lightbulb; Mom tugged on its string illuminating the attic, which was deeper, taller, and more expansive than I had remembered.

I glanced around the room; cobwebs hung off the walls, their owners nowhere to be found; and dust lay over every surface like dirty snow. Dusty sheets covered the antique furniture. Stacked all around us was a maze of forgotten toys and old board games; Christmas decorations; rolled up rugs, dirty paintings; Granny’s dressmaker’s dummy; idle suitcases; and sealed boxes with their contents written on the side—the abandoned odds and ends that had once been used and a part of our everyday life.

I gagged, for the air inside the attic tasted like the pungent ozone tang of cold metal and smelt of insulation, dust, mold, and wet cardboard. I coughed clearing my throat of dust, wishing I could leave knowing that straightening and cleaning the attic would aggravate my young, tender sinuses. Instead, I sat on the floor next to Mom and together we rummaged through the boxes’ contents. In one box I discovered a vintage wooden keepsake box that housed a collection of vintage lace dollies, handwritten recipe cards, newspaper clippings, some old stamps and letters postmarked from Germany, and a small antique, barrel-shaped key similar to a skeleton key only much smaller.

“Mom, take a look at this. What do you suppose this key belongs to?”

She took it from my hand, holding it up to the light and carefully examining it. “If memory serves me right, it’s the key that unlocks my mother’s cedar chest.” She stood up, glancing around the room. “Her cedar chest is around here somewhere, probably draped with a sheet to protect.”

In tandem we lifted the sheets off each piece of furniture until we found Granny’s heirloom cedar chest. Mom gently slipped the vintage key into the keyhole until the locking mechanism clicked open then lifted up the lid of the cedar chest. I closed my eyes and sniffed; the air inside it smelled like Granddad’s cedar cigar box with just a hint of overlying mustiness. And the hinges—stiff as an old man’s arthritic joints—complained as they reluctantly snapped into place.

“Oh, look!” Mom’s eyes brightened. “Here are some of your Granny’s quilts.” She reached inside the cedar chest, retrieving a rather tattered-looking patchwork quilt and draping it across my lap. “Oh my!” Tears flooded her eyes. “Granny made this such a long time ago.”

Granny's and Mom

“You see this fabric here?” Mom ran her fingers over a delicate pink and purple calico print. “It came from a dress I wore during the first grade. And this white, lacy fabric. It came from Aunt Dulce’s wedding dress.”

Mom smiled, gingerly re-folding the quilt before digging deeper into the cedar chest unearthing a large cardboard box containing scraps of material from a bygone time. “What an unexpected surprise!” She emptied the scraps onto the floor. “How lovely! These’ll make a beautiful quilt.”

Mom scooped up the scraps of material, gently returning them to the cardboard box then snapped the cedar chest shut. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this dust! Let’s go downstairs and get some fresh air.”

She all but scurried down the staircase forgetting to close the hatch door. We returned to the kitchen where Mom took each fabric patch and, one-by-one, touched it then maneuvered it around the table until she’d created a quilt pattern—a pattern I, of course, couldn’t see. She worked silently, occasionally murmuring to herself and wiping the tears from her face. I watched her, lost in her own world filled with soulful memories.

“Mom,” I softly tapped her on the shoulder. “Are we done with spring cleaning for today?”

“What? Oh. Yes, Sweetie. We’re done. What I’m doing is way more important than spring cleaning. You’re free to stay or go.”

Before returning to the memories the scraps of material evoked, Mom said these words to me—words that I never forgot: “Remember, Sweetie. Memories are important, for as long as there are memories, yesterday remains.”

As I turned to leave, I paused momentarily and glanced back at her. I was suddenly filled with love, respect, and childhood gratitude for my mom and in having shared a memorable and unique spring clean-a-thon with her. Never again did I dread her spring-cleaning ritual for each one was an opportunity to see another side of Mom and to build cherished memories together.

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