Ode to the Window Washer Woman

Alas, the summer light fades into the early darkness of daylight savings time.  The harvest is over, and the harvest log chronicling the high and lows of this year’s harvest season has been put to rest for the year.  With all of my free time, I checked out a 550 page book from the public library and started making plans for the work that still needs done to our building.  My husband has his frowny face on for that project.  I must patiently wait for the Kool-aid man to do his job.

The back burner-ed household and office duties, though numerous, are all outweighted by one ultimate goal: to wash the windows while the weather holds.  Picture this, it is late Saturday afternoon, and a full day’s work has already been accomplished at the real job.  For some odd reason, the Window Washer Woman gets the urge to start washing the windows at home in between loads of laundry.  Upon starting, I notice how the sills have become weathered and sun beaten.  So, I fall into another rabbit hole and decide to head to the local hardware store for some stain and polyurethane.  Upon arriving back home, I figure that I might as well throw the curtains in the washing machine to freshen them up too.  Then, I run a little water in the bathtub because the window screens are horrendously dirty and in need of a good washing.  I take care of each one and set them aside to dry.  Finally, I start on the windows.

The weathered wood of each sill is carefully sanded down. I work quickly to vacuum and wipe away the sawdust and dirt from the woodwork and frame making sure to clean the tracks with a cloth over the end of a knife like my mom taught me many years ago.  There is a relaxing solitude about the process.  Working steadily, I move from side to side and room to room until I make it into the kitchen.  The last one.  The one that stares back at me the most as I cook supper, wash dishes, and prepare lunches.  Apparently, I spend too much time in the kitchen.  Just as I’m sanding and prepping the sill, in walks my husband, home from the farm with the boys.  Everybody starts dropping clothes, shoes, toys, water bottles, and a Pringles can in my zone of solitude.  The youngest one starts up the step stool wanting to help. At this point, I just want to get done and chastise him off the ladder.  I keep working. I feel eyes watching me.  Then, the question, “Any ideas for supper?”  Oh, yes, let me get right on that as my left foot is propped on the kitchen counter my left arm hangs from the kitchen cabinet beside the sink, and I strain to reach the upper corner of the window above the sink like I’m playing a sick game of Twister.  Nobody moves as I refuse to answer while I concentrate on finishing my job.  Then, my husband starts in.  “What have you been doing all day?”  The piles of unfolded laundry in the living room, the dirty dishes in the sink, and my will to avoid an argument force me to bite my tongue. “Does this really need to be done right now?  It’s not like it’s harvest and we are trying to get the corn out before the rain comes next week.”  Oh honey, you have no idea.  I finish my washing and prep work, the staining had to wait until Sunday. I offer him a glaring response and head down to the basement to unload the fourth load of laundry of the day debating the entire way what I need to grab from the beer fridge in that same general vicinity.  We settled on frozen pizza for supper.  The polyurethane awaits application, but I did get the windows washed before the rain set in.  And, I even finished my book before my youngest son decided he needed a 1 a.m. solitary moment with the Window Washer Woman in the rocking chair.  Welcome Home.

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