A Note on Cleaning and Maintenance

A Note on Cleaning and Maintenance

By Katherine Westermann

Dear New Owners, 

Mr. McJay, always the professional, wearing the kindly whatever-you-prefer-ma’am smile of a true salesman, dissuaded me from meeting you, or any of this home’s prospective buyers in person, so we are perfect strangers. Let me introduce myself: Elsa Frip; ninety-eight years young; never mind the cane, never mind the palsy, make no fuss about The Eye!  

The Eye has been a problem since 1934 when I mistook rubbing alcohol for water and cooked some brain nerves, making it blind in the medical sense, even if not spiritually. The Eye still saw shadows, long dark shapes slinking out of view, bugs swarming on the ground, and occasionally red sparks. The other kids snuck up on my left—or so I’ve guessed—and whispered indecent words in demon voices.

Eventually, I tried to cut the eye out with a paring knife. What a silly girl I was! Never fear, Mother stopped me in time. My destiny would not allow such an easy solution. It was for the best though; a girl of that age might have gouged too deep. 

Enough about that, sweet buyers. How the old can go on! Let’s talk about the house. I am certain Mr. McJay, professional that he is, showed you the secret hatch in the attic and instructed you on shuttering the windows in a storm. And of course, he’s led you down the creaking stairs to the basement and remarked on the potential for a wine cellar. And he’s quite right! However, he may not have drawn your attention to the pale spot of concrete that lies in shadow by the stairs. A spot where the floor is like worms squirming in blood. And perhaps Mr. McJay did not mention how I scrub that spot daily, lest it spread. 

You have been told, I am sure, of the weddings and the dances held on the property, quilting circles reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie, and the milking cows that used to graze the back pasture before the neighboring younger houses sprang up. And yet some history, pertinent history, has been omitted. The house, I fear, is in need of tireless maintenance. It was built on sound soil, by Christian men, but certain things cannot be overcome.  

It began in 1943, when I was 18 years old. My father, having had a good crop, decided to expand and refurbish what was then a root cellar. By late summer, the project grew overwhelming, and Father hired a young Chinaman named Shang to lend a hand. In my good eye, he was very handsome, lean and graceful with a slow sincere smile. The Eye sometimes saw disdainful sneers, but his kindness made that easy to ignore. He was a cowboy, gentle with the horses he broke, and gentle with me. His slow spider-silk-touch never startled me, even coming from the left.  

Sadly, that beautiful time couldn’t last. I think The Eye couldn’t stand me to be happy. Regardless of the cause, while us women were away at Church one fine morning, Shang met with a terrible end.

I found him in the basement. His head was caved in, from the back, like someone had taken a baseball bat to him from behind. His face was uninjured. I arranged him on his back, so it would look like he was sleeping. A puddle of blood formed a grizzly halo around his head. It took the policeman, who was red and round as an apple, 5 minutes to declare it an accident. Father nodded smugly at the decision, pleased with himself. I looked away, trying to forget Father’s expression. Accident, I told myself, doggedly. 

Accident or not, a wide black circle of blood seeped into the level dirt. If I looked closely, I saw worms and centipedes squirming there. To make that stop, it required daily raking. Spiderwebs tickled on the left side of my face, and dark shapes floated on the periphery. No one else did it properly. The trick was to use all your strength and not be afraid to cry. My efforts kept it under control.   

Another daily chore among many. Oh, the monotony of a woman’s life in those days. I shan’t bore you with the particulars! I raked it on my wedding day, the day after, no day was exempt. Until 1952, when my now late husband, Herman Frip, a hard-handed whiskey drinker, decided to “finish” the basement, concrete floors, etc. I was 9 months pregnant, on-bedrest, and in no position to stop him. Herman was a difficult man to love, even had I been trying, and he was an impossible man to persuade. I lay on my side, weeping, while the workers voices echoed up from below.     

The stain was covered by fresh grey stone. Something terrible might have happened in covering it, but maybe Herman was right. A broken clock does keep time twice a day!

I remember, staring down at the innocent grey stone, my swollen stomach twisted in knots. The spot was gone. Good. I never wanted to see it again. But, dear Owners, I shouldn’t have trusted it. Wounds fester under bandages. 

Like a slow growing fungus, it grew back, dark and wriggling. In my left peripheral vision, I glimpsed bugs and half rotten snakes, with maggoty eyes, boiling up out of the concrete. At night the spot began to faintly glow the sickly pinkish green of an infected burn. 

Perversely, I did not clean it. Once you move in here, you might find yourself forgetting it, avoiding it, deciding it is not that bad. Perhaps you will dream about slipping into its soft embrace with the same abandon of an insect sliding into the syrupy trap of a pitcher plant. That is the spot working on you. It will influence you if you let it. I, being a Christian, thought I might rely on Jesus’s love and ignore the impure spot. This is another trap! Nothing can replace daily cleaning.   

On an airless August night, after three months of avoiding my responsibility, Herman left to get drunk. Again! The baby’s endless shrieks echoed through the empty house, hurting my ears. I took her downstairs for ice, to sooth the teething, and through no fault of my own, the little thing squirmed from my hands. Her soft baby head hit the concrete with a hollow thump, like a pumpkin breaking, followed by perfect silence.  

The spot deepened into a ragged pit of sightless maggots. Maybe it was opening, but I never looked directly at it. Instead, I scrubbed with gloves on, and my eyes closed. But it was distracting. Distracting enough to make an unfanciful man like Herbert tumble down the stairs. Thump! Crash! Crack! 

Memory, I declare, is a funny thing. Most of my memories are in faded sepia tones, but Herbert’s head cracking open is vivid as technicolor. His baffonish tumble down the stairs. The bright red of arterial blood, the white glint of exposed skull and the grey-pink oatmeal of his brains leaking out—as I write these word I see it now. The spot, of course, got deeper, like a rotten wound leading to Hell. 

That time the police took longer to declare it an accident. Which as a Christian, I can assure you it was. The police shook their heads, and sure, people may have whispered. But you, dearest New Owners, should feel very lucky it went that way. No one else would have, or could have, worked as tirelessly as me to keep the spot at bay. I scrubbed until my hands blistered and cracked just to get it under control. Even now, if you let it go a single day it will worsen.

But enough history, Old Lady! I’m sorry, how I do ramble. Suffice it to say, even if you can’t see it the way I could, the stain needs daily care. I recommend a one-part bleach, one-part water solution. You will find my yellow gloves and a scrub-brush downstairs. The task may feel a burden at first, but you’ll get used to it. To me, it became a type of daily prayer.

May this house bless you with family, love, and happiness. Keep it clean for me!

Sincerely, Elsa Frip    

PS. The downstairs wash-sink may be clogged due to a decision I made regarding The Eye. A fresh start upon moving and all that. If anything bubbles up, or you have any concerns, please direct your correspondence to Mr. McJay at Home Sweet Home Realty, LLC.