I was raised in the Midwest. My blood sings with a heavy German accent, and my DNA is imprinted with a blue-collar work ethic. I was brought up to believe if you weren’t ill, you should be sweating. The South has taught me to slow down. Granted it’s taken me a few years, but I do appreciate a good drawl and the rock of a porch swing.
This week we’re expecting visitors from the North, and my dead mother’s sainted head shook in disdain at the dirty windows and grimy fingerprints on every surface. I thought about hiring a young woman to help clean, but mom said, “You can do this yourself. Spread it out over several days.” Evidently she must have been talking to my husband, too, because we have worked doggedly washing windows inside and out, vacuumed, dusted, mopped, primped, and cooked for days.
Sitting on the couch, I am enjoying the view of the river out my clean windows, but now I see all the stuff in the yard that needs tending. Those darn German ancestors were workaholics. I need a bier.
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