By Ann Burnside Love
Do I mean heavy-duty spring-cleaning, where you roll the
rugs, carry them outdoors and beat them with a tennis racquet? Hardly. Though
some of us may have traces of memory about that. For myself, I can’t remember
when my mother did not have a vacuum cleaner, although the cooling process in
the kitchen was by icebox, until the amazing Frigidaire came along.
When I think about spring cleaning, I’m certainly relieved
not to still be living in the six-bedroom house where I raised my children,
although it was emotional agony leaving it, or the three-bedroom house on the
edge of the park I bought when they were grown, or even my first retirement
house in a 55-plus community. I remember them all. And I remember spring cleaning
in all of them.
