by CAROL McEWEN, for the Sun Gazette
This year we’ve been surrounded by heroes: hospital staff, grocery-store workers, police, firefighters and teachers, among others.
But how about the people we see dangling precariously from ropes, sitting on a small wooden seat the size of postage stamp? You know the ones. They clean the windows for us condo dwellers and office workers.
Our building manager sent us all an e-mail, warning that the window washers were scheduled and we might want to close our blinds “for privacy.” Forget that!
I want to see them work, give them a friendly wave and make sure they get the splotchy “gift” from Larry Bird off my window. That bird must be eating well.
I knew the workman was on his way when I saw several ropes, like long fuzzy spider legs, dangling outside my windows. Soon the friendly washer dropped from the sky into view.
He used a saucer-sized suction cup to grab the window and anchor himself. I watched, mesmerized, as he made tight “s” curves on my window with a soapy tool. Then he used his squeegee with the same pivoting action to dry the window. He was done with the first huge window in minutes.
When it was time for the next one, he jerked the rope, swung himself over and plopped the suction cup on the next pane. He looked like Tarzan of the jungle, swinging on those grape vines.
He used a little extra elbow grease at the bird stain and looked to me for approval. If I were a judge, I’d have held up my “10” paddle, but since I had none, I just gave him a thumbs up.
Then he disappeared from view and was on to the windows below me.
Watching him made me remember my hard-working mom, who washed our windows every year, as part of her spring-cleaning routine. The campaign, like any good military operation, involved careful planning and preparation.
First she’d take down the curtains, readying them for their annual wash, starch and iron job – call her a beautician for curtains. Next she’d “bathe” the venetian blinds, on her knees while bent over our bathtub.
NOW she was ready to put that bucketful of vinegar-laced water and plenty of rags to work. And work she did!
Once the windows made that squeaky sound, the process was reverse-engineered as she hung the sparkling blinds and her curtains, stiff as soldiers at attention, on her pristine windows. Those Old School women weren’t kidding when they named it “housework.”
Reach Carol McEwen at carolwrites4fun@gmail.com.
‘Old School’ column: A clear view
This year we’ve been surrounded by heroes: hospital staff, grocery-store workers, police, firefighters and teachers, among others.
But how about the people we see dangling precariously from ropes, sitting on a small wooden seat the size of postage stamp? You know the ones. They clean the windows for us condo dwellers and office workers.
Our building manager sent us all an e-mail, warning that the window washers were scheduled and we might want to close our blinds “for privacy.” Forget that!
I want to see them work, give them a friendly wave and make sure they get the splotchy “gift” from Larry Bird off my window. That bird must be eating well.
I knew the workman was on his way when I saw several ropes, like long fuzzy spider legs, dangling outside my windows. Soon the friendly washer dropped from the sky into view.
He used a saucer-sized suction cup to grab the window and anchor himself. I watched, mesmerized, as he made tight “s” curves on my window with a soapy tool. Then he used his squeegee with the same pivoting action to dry the window. He was done with the first huge window in minutes.
When it was time for the next one, he jerked the rope, swung himself over and plopped the suction cup on the next pane. He looked like Tarzan of the jungle, swinging on those grape vines.
He used a little extra elbow grease at the bird stain and looked to me for approval. If I were a judge, I’d have held up my “10” paddle, but since I had none, I just gave him a thumbs up.
Then he disappeared from view and was on to the windows below me.
Watching him made me remember my hard-working mom, who washed our windows every year, as part of her spring-cleaning routine. The campaign, like any good military operation, involved careful planning and preparation.
First she’d take down the curtains, readying them for their annual wash, starch and iron job – call her a beautician for curtains. Next she’d “bathe” the venetian blinds, on her knees while bent over our bathtub.
NOW she was ready to put that bucketful of vinegar-laced water and plenty of rags to work. And work she did!
Once the windows made that squeaky sound, the process was reverse-engineered as she hung the sparkling blinds and her curtains, stiff as soldiers at attention, on her pristine windows. Those Old School women weren’t kidding when they named it “housework.”
Reach Carol McEwen at carolwrites4fun@gmail.com.