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Every year, without fail, I arrange my life so that come May I am free of all obligations and can devote myself to a thorough top to bottom scouring of the Domicile Brockway. I am compelled to do so by vague genetic memories distilled from a long line of Irish scullery maids (my ancestors –along with Marie Antoinette, Madame Curie and, depending on my mood, Shanna Queen of the Jungle ) but also by not so vague personal memories of little Marcie (my mom) struggling to flip the mattress on every bed, change the ticking on every pillow, polish every pane of glass, scrub every baseboard and air exchange grate, and throw open every single window to let the house inhale spring after a winter of holding its breath.

I loved that ritual cleaning. Sure, I bitched about being enlisted into the cause. I was a teenager. It was my duty to bitch. But secretly, I looked forward to those days. Because there is something in the wholesale airing of a place that promises a fresh start, a clean slate, a new beginning, and brings a deep satisfaction in your preparedness for whatever wonderful thing the next season brings. The there was the post spring cleaning ritual where my mom and I would sit on the back porch, kick off our shoes and drain a six pack of (stop that!) of Orange Crush while we watched the bed sheets snapping on the clothes line and listened to the male cardinals in the pine trees whistling frantically to any passing female. She’d ask me my plans for the summer and sometime that would lead to other conversations, a little girlish trading of confidences, sharing personal goals, sometimes even a dream or two.

This year I’m a little behind schedule but I’m eying the wash buckets and collecting my husband’s old tee-shirts. Doodah is here and I have plans for that attic. And her. And afterwards… I know just where to buy a six pack of Orange Crush.

How about you? Does something about a bucket of suds and a freshening wind and a bright sky awake your inner scullery? What does it mean to you?