JOY ALONG THE WAY: BRIDGE CLUB CLEANING FRENZY

"Hurry up, now," I coached myself. "You're having Bridge Club here soon." Bridge clubs, I mused. They have evolved from quilting bees, sewing circles, afternoon teas and, maybe, from loftier organizations, the literary clubs of America.

Some folks think the bridge clubs are a waste of time. Others look on them as little respites to break the necessary busyness of today's living, a congenial pause to exchange news, recipes, favorite remedies for various aches and pains, opinions about local happenings and what is about to happen. You can learn where to get help for any problems and receive remarks that boost self confidence -- "That's the best cake I've ever eaten." "I just love to come to your house." "You must have a good cleaning woman. Everything shines."

In addition, as intimated, having bridge club at your own home stirs one to get the house in a better shape than the ordinary day-to-day living shape it is usually in. I'm speaking for myself, of course. Other homes always seem ready for company any hour of the day, day of the week.

"See if you can't get the remaining Christmas glitter out of the carpet," I further instruct myself. So, out with the new vacuum cleaner. Back and forth, crosswise, cater-cornered, I go, cutting the telephone cord in the process and sucking up something else, very noisily. "No time to open the bag to see what it was. Get with it," I order, trusting that if this cleaner cuts telephone cords and sucks up noisy objects, surely all the little bits, of foil are at last disappearing.

The carpet swept, I look at where walls meet ceiling to inspect for cobwebs. Don't see any, but around and around anyway with the extended-handled, soft brush, being careful not to disturb the loose plaster hanging in several spots.

Underfoot and up above at last seem clean. But wait, there's a sliver of Christmas foil at the foot of the buffet. I approach it to pick up but as I get near it goes away.

Now, to the dusting. Flip, flop, slippery-slide, rub, rub, goes the dust rag. Mop and Glow renews acquaintance with the kitchen floor, Windex with the storm doors. Pretty soon all things seem to be shining, plus my forehead, with sweat.

Oops, there's another piece of glitter the new vacuum didn't remove. I set a beady eye on it and approach in a straight line, ready to pick up where it is supposed to be. It disappears as I get near. But I pick something up where it was supposed to have been. Come up with a raveling from the dust rag.

Now to set up the bridge tables, arrange the chairs, get out the dishes, polish the silver, run Dip-it through the coffee pot to assure the best coffee I can make, which has never won any prizes.

I go through my unorganized recipes to find a favorite cake recipe. This takes time, but it de-shines my forehead. Eventually I find the recipe. Oh, oh. No vegetable oil or nuts on hand, necessary ingredients of the cake. Do I go after them or change my dessert? This requires more sitting down time to decide. In this position I see things from a different level. What! Another snippet of foil by the TV! Picker-upper-of-foil-disgusted, I let it be and turn on the TV to learn that six to eight inches of snow are expected. It came to pass in the night. So, I make eight telephone calls to cancel the event, just when I was all ready. Well, not quite. There's still that illusive piece of glitter by the TV and the emptying of the dust bag to see what was noisily picked up by the eager new machine and to ponder the workings of a vacuum that cuts a telephone cord but doesn't pick up tiny pieces of Christmas foil. Oh well, I have two more weeks to get that done. Then the postponed meeting will be rescheduled. I wonder how much of my preparation can be held intact for two weeks. Not much, grumbles my find cleaning woman.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.