The House Cleaner

Removing memories from a residence of someone you have never met has always raised questions in my mind. Personal artifacts,

dishware, clothes, furniture, domestics, etc., many of which are just tossed into an over eager dumpster, hold life tales which will now

never be revealed. A Formica covered kitchen table now dismantled sits atop a truck bed ready to be transported to a nearby donation center.

Its metal and vinyl seated chairs neatly stacked curbside stacked awaiting their fate. How many dinner places were set upon its chipped and

worn surface over the years. Penciled homework paged assignments were completed upon its scarred surface. Perhaps crayoned stickmen were

drawn upon its surface. The padded chairs are cracked and taped over with grey duct tape.How many of life's problems were discussed and

debated and solved on bent elbows over a favorite beverage. Conversations in the kitchen. Mother and daughter over cooking receipes. Others

countless, sorrow filled and well as joyous topics. The Welcome to our home banner still hangs next to the Felix the Hat wall clock.  Images

and photographs neatly hung on the inner walls have left their outline trace where they so proudly adorned the home. The echoing sound of

voices from now  empty bedroom, void of the curtains and posters where teenage heartthrobs were whispered in fantasy dreams are long since

forgotten. Ghosts memories of bedtime stories once read to the children who were raised in this home. The worn and scraped linoleum floor

kitchen betrays its age. A cluttered oil stained garage where once training wheels fitted someone's bicycle to the bent wire rims of a lawn

croquet set are stored in deep recess of a darkened corner of thje garage. Ray Bradbury had once said his inspiration for so many of his

short stories just came from a look around his own home. To this statement it is easily recognizable.

            A built in fireplace in the carpeted living room is the center of attraction in this 50's style ranch home. The marble mantle

proudly displays bowling trophies as dad's leaugue prized accomplishments. His sons and daughters pictures dress the sides of a full length

mirror over a Queen Anne couch. Ascending the carpeted stairwell, how many times were the oak spindles polished along the hand rail? How

many times did tiny expectant eyes peek out from behind them to see if Santa ate the milk and cookies. An unintentional smile creases my

lips as images flash of Dr. Denton pajama clad children hurrying downstairs on Christmas morning. I picture thier smiles and I breathe

deeply as if my senses were alive to enjoy their happiness.

          The master bedroom where an old wind up alarm clock still sits atop a laced mat on a night stand. It's wake up call has long been

silenced. A hand stitched patchwork quilt sits at the foot of a twin bed. A cedar armoire sits catty corner. There are no sliding doors on

hinges or built in Jacuzzi or attached bathroom. Just a simple closet door with a glass knob. Wire rim hangers are stilled filled with a

menagerie of colored shirts all of which are buttoned at the neck. An array of dress shoes sit neatly on their respective shoebox.  A 13"

television rests atop a mirrored dresser. Its remote control rests on the nightstand. I am escorted further down a hallways to a room where

once a nursery held the cries of a newborn to its present state of a study. A Brentwood rocker with a comforter and padded pillow invite me

to sit and take in a view across the front yard. A library of Time-Life Books where stories of the Old West to the History of Space

Exploration are stacked on seemingly endless rows of hard cover books. The Classics from Dickens, to Hawthorn to the adventure tales of Moby

Dick and White Fang. From Shakespeare to Samuel Clemens. Hard cover to paperback books. Stacked like pyramids, Sherlock Holmes to

biographies of unforgettable people who altered the course of history. Yellowed clipped articles from newsprint paper of the assassination

of Kennedy to the historic 1st man in space are tapped in yarn decorated scrapbooks. It is easy to tell that the majority of the gentleman's

golden years were spent reading within his library of memories.

            In another room now lit only by an undecorated light bulb centered in the ceiling. Visualized model airplanes hanging suspended

in flight from kite string from eye screws. A young boys room. Athletic pennants for the Mets and Red Sox hang like limp dog ears from walls

in dire need of painting that once overheard the adolescent phone conversations of first loves and girlfriends of years past. The hardwood

floor is scuffed and scratched where bureaus or heavy objects dragged across the surface. SA plastic basketball hoop is fixed over tht

doorway.  The sliding doors to a closet reveal cardboard boxes filled with scores of sheet music of songs from the 50's. The vinyl record

recordings of Elvis and Chubby Checker must have reverberated numerous times and witnessed solo dancing to the beat of the happy days music.

            As my surveillance continues, each piece has a story. A connection to someone or something that had an impact of someones life.

Whether it be a friend, neighbor, relative, or the first boss, each item that was pointed out, there was a story. They take time to tell

each one hiolding me captive to the tales of ago,  It will take a week to discard all that has been left. The week prior they arrived in

numbers. Like vultures and scavengers, they come to pick and choose what items they want as reminders of the man who  was a part of their

lives. Sons, daughters, grandchildren friends and other relatives all come to see what material things have been left. Many things have been

donated to selected charities. Where there is money involved, everyone seems to have a handout to receive something of the windfall.

Emotions run high. The house will be up for sale soon after I have cleaned it and wiping all traces of the 50 plus years of the previous

owners. Sometimes, a tear will betray me even though I have no idea of who lived here. Perhaps I am getting soft and my heart of stone has

developed a fatal flaw.