The Native Iowan

There comes a time. From time to time. A new broom. A clean sweep. All the corners. The high-up cobwebs. Every stick of furniture moved. Turned upside down. Top to bottom. On your knees. Climbing the ladder. Nothin’ is spared. Everything moved. Everything. Wiped with a damp cloth. My granny called it spring cleaning.

I thought it drudgery. Slave labour, at best. Those long, long weekends. When the time had come. Ma running the “above ground”. Dad doing the basement and garage. Drama at it’s highest. The dogs would hide. It’d be for a reason. Father Bernard coming for a visit. A family reunion. I thought it drudgery, at best.

I found it adventure. Coins under cushions. Lost pens under chairs. Forgotten presents in the basement. Boxes of Junk in the attic. Junk! Treasures. Discarded valuables: Two old reel-to-reel tape recorders. A pair of wooden ice-skates. A beaver felt hat. A pair of high-button shoes. An old oilskin. A rusty kerosene lamp. Adventure, at best.

There comes a time. From time to time. When my life needs a new broom. A clean sweep. A day or two off. To reorganize. To inventory. To give it all a thorough dusting. All the corners. The high-up cobwebs. The overdue issues. The forgotten “to-dos”. Clean up. Catch up. Back up. All good fun.

A fun day off. Reorganize the office. Play loud music. Change all the light bulbs. Install a new computer. Rewire the mess of cables and leads. Hang a hammock in the spare bedroom. Looks cool. Funky. More treasures. Left behind. But not forgotten. Clear that room. Ready for use. Pile in the office. Sort later.

The family gone. School holidays. Enjoying Gizo. I create confusion first. Everything in an organized heap. A meat pie in the oven. Dust the big shelf. Hang cables in one place. Dusted books back in place. More “junk” in the closets. A cordless drill. A pack of screws. Hang that mirror. Move the white board.

An unused Harman-Kardon sound system. What a gift! Play louder music: Pink Floyd’s “wish U were here”. Ricky Lee Jones’ “flying cowboys”. Neil Young’s “Rust”: Cortez. Powder Finger. Rocking in the free world. Crank it louder.  Up the ladder. Broomin’ an scrubbin’. Organize an’ sort. A whale of a chore. A whale of a joy.

The walls shake. The louvres rattle. Somebody calling my name. I jump. Startled. Guiltily I answer the door. Nothing major. A simple question. A simple answer. Everybody happy. I turn the decibles down. Save a charred meat pie. Repair with cheese and sauce. Open a beer. Take a break. Jumanji on the tube. Great grafixs.

The day short. A lot to do. Before it’s done. A bizzy week coming. More travels. Finish off tomorrow? Or: A job left incomplete? An on going project? Another?  So it’s gotta be tomorrow. Or tonight. Or when I return. It’s still OK. Sometimes prevarication is required. Good for you. Prolong the job. The enjoyment.

The music. Music. Prolong the music. “You are like a hurricane”. I think of Kenny TWD. The Dick and Gert show. Another little treasure. Found not on a shelf. An emotional treasure. A memory. An auditory prompt. As good as a familiar scent. To take you back. To prompt a thought. A recollection. A smile.

And the day ends. With a smile. The new computer almost setup. Can finish that tomorrow. Tomorrow. A lovely word. I think of Young Phillip. All his “tomorrows”. So long ago. So many adventures. So many spring cleanings. The drudgery. The music. The memories. I do look forward to “Tomorrow”. With a big, big smile.