SLOWDOWN ON THE HOUSE CLEANING FAST TRACK

Some parts of the house slow me down considerably during my spasms of spring house cleaning. The worst of the offenders are the bookshelves.

Each book must come out, be dusted and put back on the shelf, according to some standard set long ago. I think such standard was set by Mama when we had about 25 books, most of which we almost knew by heart, except the Waverly Novels and complete works of Lord Byron.

Books that I don't re-read or refer to often gradually make it to the top shelf. Still, these high-rising books receive equal treatment which requires some little sort of elevation to reach. I'm reluctant to say a kitchen chair. Any time one falls from a standing position on a chair, she gets little sympathy.

Out comes "Garden To Order," a story of Burpee's seeds and how they grow. I dust it with my handy feather duster and take a moment to admire the jacket cover which is a colorful montage of some of Burpee's seed packets from 1888 onward. A replica of one of their first seed packets is a cameo of a peaceful, rural America. In the background the sun is arising from a green, mountainous horizon and sending golden rays into the sky and over the world below. Such world is a tiny collection of modest little house in the background with a church steeple in their midst. A green meadow comes forward in the picture which is garlanded in larger and more prominent detail by Burpee's colorful sweet pears, pansies, roses, marigolds, mums and phlox.

Such a far cry from the present streets of Los Angeles and other American cities, the harsh noises of which seem to still echo in my head.

I remembered there was something near the beginning of this book that had amused me at the first reading. I searched for it, thinking to remove at least some of the current dismay. I found it on page twenty-one. It was a simile stating that Washington Atlee Burpee, the founder of the seed company, was as practical as pants. I laughed again as I looked at my own pants, the pockets of which momentarily held the feather duster, a can of Endust, a ravely rag or two and a container of Windex since, being high up and next to a window pane, I sought to kill the proverbial two birds.

Perusing the 21 pages, pausing to enjoy and reflect on the pictorial jacket and smile at my own bulging, pocketed, practical pants, I caused a 20-minute gap in my house cleaning orgy.

Thinking to make up for it I quickly pulled out, dusted, and replaced "The Hiding Place," "White Goats and Black Bees," "The Complete Works of Lord Byron." Especially swift was the treatment of Byron.

When I came to Mark Twain's "Pudd'nhead Wilson," I paused again to enjoy the wonderful marginal drawings illustrating the story. In addition to these I had to re-read some selections from Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar which introduce each chapter, some of which are: "Nothing so needs reforming as other people's habits," "Adam was but human this explains it all. He did not want the apple for the apple's sake, he wanted it only because it was forbidden. The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have eaten the serpent." That may have been an easier way out of Eden for all who came afterwards. Another such chapter introduction is: "Training is everything. The peach was one a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."

Hesitantly I put Pudd'nhead back on the top shelf, wondering if I shouldn't have it handier and also wondering about my training in spring house cleaning. At the speed with which I was progressing it might be hot summer before I was even through with the bookshelves.

This spurred me on to the lower shelves where I pulled out a well worn volume and it fell open of its own accord to the page where Wilson McDonald is saying,"I love old books/ Frayed from the searching/ Of truth-hungry fingers:/ Their warm, soft vellum/ Leads me up through sorrow/ Like a dear friend's hand."

"Yes, yes," I whisper to myself, "These old books are such a comfort. Listen, the echoes of angry shouts, crashing of glass, crackle of fire, staccato of ambulances, wailing of sirens are gone. I hear, again, the wrens, the cardinals, the hum of the refrigerator, the old black crow who must be nesting in a nearby pine. Why don't I go out and see if I can find the nest? These books can wait. They'll be here always. A crow's nest is a sometimes thing."

REJOICE!