One reason I fell in love with our last house was its many windows. Six in the living room alone, a big many-paned bay in the dining room, another in the kitchen. One reason I was happy to leave our last house was its many windows.
Not only did it have many windows, but
each window was grided with twelve individual panes, top and bottom,
pain pane framed with wood. Thus, cleaning one side of a window (never
mind the storms and screens) meant cleaning twenty-four individual
little windows. Each window easily took me 25 minutes by the time I fought with
the storms and schlepped outside to hose the screens and do the other side.
Our condo has only eight windows in the entire downstairs but my window washing days are over. If men can hire other people to cut their grass, I can certainly pay someone else to break out the Windex and paper towels.
So into my life came Mark, a chatty guy (he has an 11th month-old Cocker spaniel named Rosy – ask me anything about her, I could probably tell you) who’s been out with his squeegee for 40 years. Maybe his family set him to work at age 12, because he didn’t look old enough to have been on the job that long, and he’s darn spry on that ladder.
And it’s still a mystery how he managed with just one bucket, while I need spray, sponges, paper towels, the hose, and the sink.
The impetus wasn’t only the four-year-old dirt (I really, really hate doing windows). We’ve just had the porch glassed in, it was covered with meaty contractor prints, and it sits too high for me to feel comfortable on a ladder.
Anyway, it was magical, I tell you.