Revival
Welcome back to Little Bit Everything in Tasty Sauce. Tasty Sauce for short. To those who’ve visited our blog before, we’re happy to have you back. We’re happy to be back, too. To those who are checking Tasty Sauce out for the first time and wonder what the heck it is, we are four writers who take turns with weekly postings of our original short works of fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, commentary, whatever springs to mind. We hope you enjoy our work.
It’s been nearly three years since our last post. We had to step away from it for a while, step away from writing altogether. We all needed some time off, as life intervened and required a different focus. At least mine did. I felt my creative well go dry. I lost my desire for writing.
But lately we four have been talking about picking up our pens, dusting off our keyboards, getting back in the writing groove and starting up the blog again. We’ve been slow to turn talk into action, until a few days ago when we finally agreed to just do it – revive Tasty Sauce.
I’m first up in the new era of Tasty Sauce. With only days to prepare, I’ve decided to go back to my writing beginnings and share the first real story I ever wrote twenty-some years ago. So, for the revival of Tasty Sauce, I present “Sweeping Time,” a story set in rural Illinois in the time before email, cellphones, Facebook or Instagram. It’s a story of how everyday life is always presenting us with chances for renewal.
So, off we go! Renewal. Rebirth. Revival.
Sweeping Time
By
Liz Zuercher
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes eight as Gertie Bunn struggles to pull open the heavy oak door. Broom in hand, she pushes aside the screen and steps onto her front porch. Eight o’clock is sweeping time, weather permitting, and finally today the sun is shining after three days of off-and-on rain.
Sunlight filters through the gold and scarlet leaves that still cling to the elms and maples, making a dappled pattern on the sidewalk, and Gertie squints to ward off the morning glare. Looking out across the yard, she notices the soggy dead leaves littering the walkway and frowns. Those will be the devil to sweep off,she grouses to herself, her left hand absently massaging her aching hip joint. Her frown hardens to a scowl as her glance travels to the vacant, unkempt house across the street. Fanny would never have let those weeds grow up like that,she tells herself. She’d just be sick if she saw that. Shivering in the cool shade of the porch, Gertie draws her pink cable knit sweater around her flowered housedress and sighs deeply. Resigned, she goes about her morning task.
It is her habit to start at the north end of the porch and move south until the wide expanse of wood planking is swept clean, then proceed down the stairs and walkway to the sidewalk. Today she does not stray from the usual. She doesn’t have the energy to do any more. Her arthritis is still complaining of the wet weather, and after three days of inactivity, it’s hard to get her old bones moving again. She figures she’ll just get this job over with and sit down inside with a cup of Lipton’s, a cinnamon roll and the Today Show.
With meticulous care she places her broom in the corner where house meets porch meets railing, drawing it back to remove any dirt trapped in the corner. Then her arms begin to move in an arc, the motion becoming more fluid and graceful as she sweeps rhythmically back and forth across the porch, each time propelling the accumulated bits and pieces through the space between the railing and porch into the bushes. The sweeping becomes easier as she progresses down the length of the porch. It is hypnotic, a calming repetitive dance, loosening sore muscles and joints, taking her mind on a journey to other days of sweeping.
Her father built this house the year she was born, and she has never lived anywhere else. The sweeping was her chore as a child, and she always grabbed any opportunity to avoid it. Sometimes her friend Fanny Schmidt across the street saw her sweeping and beckoned from the sidewalk. “Gertie! Let’s go down to Schuler’s and get some penny candy!” That was all Gertie needed to drop the broom and be down the front steps off to Schuler’s with Fanny. When she skipped back up the walk much later, sucking on a horehound drop, there was her mother, arms folded across her chest, sitting in the porch swing, glaring. Gertie hung her head, picked up the broom and resumed her work under her mother’s supervising eye. There was no dessert that night and bedtime came early.
Her mother insisted on a thorough job and preached the value of tidiness. “Take care of this house and it will take care of you,” Mama always said. But Gertie caught her fudging every now and then, too. Like the time her mother went out to do the gardening, but ended up laughing across the flowerbeds with Mrs. Willhoite next door. They didn’t have fences. Everything in Colfax was wide open, one yard opening to another, to another and then to the cornfield beyond. Or, there were the times her mother was supposed to be cleaning the living room, but Gertie could hear her playing the piano and singing along in her hearty soprano.
Sometimes they swept together, she and her mother. They finished in half the time, then sat in the swing and enjoyed a cool glass of lemonade. When her mother got sick, a teenaged Gertie swept while her mother sat wrapped in a shawl alone in the swing. On good days her mother carried on a conversation and gave occasional directions to Gertie. On other days, she dozed.
It has been sixty-eight years since her mother died, almost a lifetime for Gertie, but she can still hear her voice saying, “Gertrude, you missed a spot over there. And don’t forget the side steps.” Now, all these years later, she still casts a furtive glance over to the side steps at the memory of her mother’s prodding. She considers skipping them this morning, but finds herself overcome with guilt at the thought. She gives the steps a quick swipe with the broom after all.
There seemed to be so much empty space in the house after Gertie’s mother died. Her father spent more time at work and ate his meals in silence, except for a “Thank you, Gertrude,” as he pushed his chair away from the table she had set just like her mother would have. His previously easy, jovial manner gave way to the flatness of a wall he retreated behind, alone with his sorrow, rarely acknowledging hers. Gertie remembers the fifteen-year-old motherless girl she was, sweeping this porch so hard a person could almost hear it cry out in pain. Then, exhausted, she’d sit in the swing swaying back and forth, staring out at nothing for what seemed like hours.
Brushing away that memory, her gnarled hands choke up on the broom handle, and she cleans off the railing. She used to have helpers for this job. Loren used to sweep with her when they were courting; but after they married and Loren moved in with her and her father, things changed. Loren was busy learning from Gertie’s father how to run the People’s Bank of Colfax and didn’t have time to sweep. Gertie, of course, went about the business of having babies and making a home for them all, filling the house once more with the lively sounds of a growing family.
Their three children were initiated at an early age into the sweeping ritual. Gertie smiles, imagining her children as toddlers playing the sweeping game. She got each one their own little broom and they swept along with her, making more mess than they cleaned up. Then they all snuggled up in the porch swing to read a story together. After a while the sweeping became a chore instead of a game. Oldest to youngest, each one in their turn took over the responsibility for keeping the porch and walk swept clean, passing the broom on to the next one in line until all three were gone from Colfax and out on their own. Then it was back to being Gertie’s job.
Now there are grandchildren that she hardly ever hears from and great-grandchildren on the way that she’ll probably never see. They all have their own lives to worry about, and they are so far away from Illinois – Caroline in California, George in North Carolina and Steven all the way in Australia. The nine grandchildren are spread all over kingdom come. Gertie keeps track of them by sticking little colored dots on her father’s old globe at the spots where they live, and every now and then she plays a game with herself to see if she remembers who each dot stands for. The kids usually call on holidays and her birthday, though she didn’t hear anything from Steven last month when she turned eighty-three. She figures he’s on one of his treks into the Outback, but she finds herself staring at the phone and checking the mailbox several times a day anyway.
Finished with the porch, Gertie brings the broom handle to rest under her chin and glances again across Center Street to the big brick house now overgrown with weeds. Fanny’s house. At least it used to be. Fanny swept her porch every morning, too. Then they’d stop and visit, each in her housedress, each leaning on her broom. She still expects Fanny to come out the door any minute.
“How’s the arthritis treating you this morning, Gertie?”
“Not so good, Fanny. Glad that rain is over with.”
“Did you hear about Vern Lowmiller finding a bunch of high school kids smoking marijuana in his corn field and chasing after them with the combine?”
“Like to scared them to death, I suppose. I guess one of them was Jake Mitchell’s oldest boy, Carl.”
“Mavis Purdy said Jake was so mad at Carl he dragged him right over to the parsonage to pray over it all with Reverent Jenkins.”
“Fat lotta good that’ll do. That kid’s been asking for it for a long time.”
“Say, did you hear anything from Steven?”
“Not yet, but he’s always the last one I hear from. I suppose he’s out chasing kangaroos and snakes someplace.”
She and Fanny had always shared the highs, lows and in-betweens of their lives with each other. More lows that anything else in recent years. Fanny was the one who held her hand while Loren had the cancer surgery fifteen years ago. And the one who sat with Loren to give Gertie a breather once in a while, when the cancer came back and there was nothing more to be done but say goodbye. The one who went to the grocery store for her when she was afraid to leave Loren’s bedside right before he died. The one who kept her company at the funeral home before the kids could get there.
For years they had been there every morning, sweeping and filling each other in on their aches and pains, their kids and grandkids, swapping opinions on whatever was in the news and comparing note on whose turn it was to bring the cranberry fluff to missionary meeting this time. But last summer Gertie began to notice a change in her friend. Fanny was late getting out to sweep every so often, and sometimes she was dressed a little funny – still in her robe with knee high stockings and no shoes, or dressed up in her Sunday best on Tuesday with her Reeboks on. One time she swept her whole porch with a rag mop. The day that Fanny looked her straight in the eye and said, “Who the hell are you?” was the day that Gertie called Fanny’s son, David, in Chicago and told him he’d better come check on his mother.
David had gathered up his mother and whisked her off to a board and care home near Chicago a few months ago. No sooner than you could say Jack Robinson he had put Fanny’s house up for sale and found a buyer. She’s heard some people from Bloomington will be moving in soon. She swallows a big lump in her throat and stares hard at Fanny’s empty house, tears welling up in her eyes.
Silly old fool,she scolds. Enough of that feeling sorry for yourself. She pulls a Kleenex from her sweater pocket, wipes her eyes and admonishes herself to count her blessings and get back to the sweeping. She is, after all, pretty healthy, except for this darned arthritis, and she’s still in her own home and able to manage. She has her Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers videos for company at night, and she can still drive her Buick into town or over to Bloomington without getting too many other drivers mad at her. And she can still darned well sweep this porch and sidewalk.
Resolutely, she reaches the broom down the steps, cleaning each one before stepping onto it. Sweep, step, sweep, step. She has the rhythm going again. Now the walkway – side to side. She has to push hard with the broom to dislodge the damp leaves from the concrete. She’ll have to get the rake out soon to clear the leaves off the grass. Now, there’s a job for the young,she thinks. She used to love to rake the leaves into a huge pile, then run headlong toward the pile and dive in. Or sometimes, before getting started, she would stomp around the yard reveling in the crunch of the dry leaves. These wet ones, though, are no fun. No crackle and crunch. Maybe she’ll hire Tommy Oswald to do it for her. Then when he’s done, she’ll make him some hot chocolate and they’ll have some cookies. That sounds pleasant. Yes, she’ll do that. It will be something to look forward to.
Where the walkway meets the sidewalk, she turns left and starts working. Swish, swish. It is harder to sweep here, because the tree roots have pushed the concrete squares into hills and valleys, and you have to watch your step. The town council wanted to take the trees out and fix the sidewalk, but when it came right down to it no one much cared about the sidewalk. They liked the trees better and voted to keep them. So everyone just walks down the street and lets the trees have their way with the sidewalk. Gertie is all in favor of that, except at sweeping time. Her father planted these trees, and she feels like his spirit camps up there in the boughs and watches over things.
“There,” she says out loud. “That’s done.”
“Hi Mrs. B. Talking to yourself again?” a voice behind her yells.
“Hi, Tommy,” she answers, as he brings his bike to a stop next to her. “Late again for school, are you?”
“Yep,” he laughs, seemingly in no hurry to get to school.
“Well, you’d better get crackin’” she says. “Come see me after school. I’ve got a bit of work for you, if you want it.”
“Okay. Will there be snickerdoodles?” He looks at her with that goofy grin of his.
“You bet,” she says.
“Great! See ya later!” And he’s off in a flash.
Watching Tommy’s retreating figure, Gertie catches sight of an orange truck coming her way. Allied Van Lines. It’s move-in day for Fanny’s house. Her shoulders tense and she tightens her grip on the broom handle, cringing at the flash of pain in her knuckles. Even though her work is done, she pretends to sweep the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the truck and the car behind it as they make their way up the street and stop at Fanny’s house. Her stomach does a little flip flop. She sucks in her breath and holds it.
The back car doors fly open and two little girls race up to the house, chattering to each other, the laces on their sneakers flapping, auburn curls bouncing. Everything about them is in motion. They scramble up the stairs to the porch and turn to see if their mother is following them.
“Hurry, Mom, hurry. We gotta pick out our rooms,” the taller one yells.
“Hurry, Mom,” the little one echoes. She is jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box, unable to contain her excitement, when she spies Gertie and waves. “Hi! We got a new house, and I get to have my own room now!”
Now, don’t those two look like a couple of live wires,Gertie thinks, letting out the stale air in her lungs and loosening her hold on the broom to wave back to her new neighbor. What do you think of those little pistols, Fanny? After a moment she decides Fanny might like it that a nice young family is moving in.
When she turns back toward her own house, Gertie is surprised by what she sees, as if she is seeing it for the first time. A large white house with gray shutters gleams in the morning sun. A broad covered porch stretches from one side of the house to the other, surrounded by a balustrade that gives the appearance of teeth in a wide grin. Six steps lead from the center of the porch to a neatly swept walkway that traverses a generous rolling yard, the grass holding onto its summer green in a last effort to ward off the winter heralded by splashes of colorful leaves. Completing the picture, the trees frame the house with an inviting softness, enveloping it in their protective branches. Everything sparkles with dew and promise, and the house stands proud, cared for, welcoming a cherished friend.
“Well, don’t you look pleased with yourself?” she chides the house. “I suppose now you’ll want some Halloween decorations.” She decides it would be fun to put up some decorations this year. She’ll have to check the attic later, but now she thinks she’ll go make some nice snickerdoodles for Tommy. Maybe those fireballs across the street would like some, too. She’ll take some over this afternoon.
She feels a hint of a breeze on her cheeks and lifts her face to the warm sun and crisp, fresh air. What a glorious day, she says to herself, smiling broadly. For good measure she takes a final swipe at the sidewalk with her broom and heads into the house to make cookies.
