Spring Cleaning

Thursday was the type of day we’ve been longing for in the Northeast—temperature hovering near 70, balmy breeze, sunny. A reminder spring is a season of rebirth. Almost time to shed my socks, figuratively if not literally.

As I drove around, lots of trees were issuing early blooms and leaves, but the Winter King Hawthorn we planted in our front yard last May is a slow starter. Its branches reveal traces of life, nothing spectacular as yet. Too bad. I would have liked to show off its buds to daughter-in-law Allison and grandson Finley, both of whom share Hawthorne as a middle name, when they arrive Monday for Passover.

More than in the past, this year our yard has been visited by robins. They’re not interested in the seed I put out for wild birds as they’re into beetle grubs, caterpillars, fruits and berries. I spotted one robin taking a bath, splashing around in a puddle left over from Wednesday’s rain. I was kinda piqued by its choice of watering hole, as the birdbath I paid good money for stood just a few feet away. Not sure if it was the same bird, but this morning, now that the puddle has dried up, a robin was enjoying the birdbath.

I’ve noticed one other aspect of robins in the ‘hood—they really do bop along, preferring to bop-bop-bop, rather than fly away, even when the unknown can be lurking in the form of a human.

Spring is heralded as a season of cleaning. Gilda is no exception to this annual rite. I’ve loaded up several bags of discards for the dump or the Salvation Army. She wanted to dispose of a pair of sterling silver salt and pepper shakers (four containers in total, in case you’re confused by my wording), hand-me-downs from my mother that we haven’t used in years, mainly because we didn’t take care of them properly and they tarnished.

I applied commercial silver polish to one Tuesday and brought back its luster, reversing years of corrosion and Gilda’s appreciation for them. Thursday I treated the remaining three shakers, but first consulted Haley’s Hints, a guide to chores using everyday items you’d find around the house. Combining a quart of hot water, a tablespoon of salt, a tablespoon of washing soda and a strip of aluminum foil, I removed the tarnish. They’re not quite as shiny as brand new, but they are presentable.

Before tackling the salt and pepper shakers I undertook a different spring cleaning task—I went for my semi-annual dental check-up. “No cavities, Mom!” My dentist now takes digital X-rays. Very cool. Clearer pictures. Ready on the spot.

I complained that often my molars sting when I chew bread. The dentist was baffled it only happens with bread. Perhaps it’s Dr. Atkins sending a message from the hereafter that carbs are not good for me. Return to the program, he’s counseling from the beyond.

Before the dentist smoothed out an old filling with a slight chip, I asked if I needed any novocaine. I didn’t, but I’m always cautious since one of the editors who worked for me 29 years ago needed his first-ever root canal treatment. Peter had just returned from Singapore and didn’t have a regular dentist. A friend referred him to a father-son dental practice, advising to pick the son. He didn’t listen.

The septuagenarian dentist asked Peter if he believed in new-fangled treatments, you know, things like novocaine. Ever the traditionalist, Peter said no, that whatever the dentist thought necessary was okay by him.

Now, anyone who’s ever had a root canal knows it’s one of the more painful treatments you will undergo in a dentist’s chair. Think Marathon Man. It's definitely not safe. Many times over. Peter came back to the office lamenting his dual decisions to sit for the elderly dentist and to believe him when he said it wouldn’t hurt.

What always amazed me is when Peter returned for the required second and third treatments, he continued to allow the senior dentist to work on his mouth—without novocaine!!!

As quickly as I could I arranged his transfer to another publication. No way I wanted someone with that amount of judgment working for me.