Great Grandfather's Floor

Great Grandfather's farmhouse was, for years, our summer retreat. Each year, at the end of school, we would pack the car with our special things and drive north to Maine where my grandparents lived in the house that had been the family's home for five generations. I guess we called it Great Grandfather's House because the idea of Great, Great, Great Grandfather simply took too much time and effort to say but, in spite of our shortcutting, it was Great Grandfather who had been the one to make the most recent and dramatic improvements to the house. He had arranged for the installation of the central heating system. He had converted the old woodshed into a wonderful garage for the then new-fangled horseless carriages. He supervised the installation of the inside plumbing -- at least its initial installation -- there had been many subsequent modifications of the water system what with moving bathrooms here and there, sinks and washers, and showers, and toilets -- and the kitchen had been remodeled a couple of times as well. But Great Grandfather still gets the credit -- it's still his house.

In any event, once we were installed in the house and the excitement of just being there once again gave way to the comfort and joy of being back in Maine, we began to help with the various chores around the place. My particular task was to sweep the floors and, surprisingly, I found that I rather enjoyed it. It wasn't one of the glamour tasks like fetching the mail or husking the corn, but it was one with which I was comfortable and through which I felt strangely connected to the family and its past. The floor in the dining room in particular, held great solace for me. This was Great Grandfather's floor. The boards were from some big white pine trees which used to stand up around the driveway. They caught the blister and Great Grandfather had them cut up for lumber. The big wide boards he put upstairs; in the hallway and in the bedrooms, and while we routinely marveled at the sight of single boards 22 inches wide, Great Grandfather had used the narrower ones downstairs in the "public" areas of the house; where it was more important to present a refined image than to cover large areas quickly . But great grandfather's floor had seen years of many feet and the boards were now not so flat as they once had been. They were cupped upward at the edges so that the middles of the wooden strips were now a little lower than the sides and each board was a bit further from its neighbors than when it had been placed. The lie of the boards ran north to south and I would always start at the north end where I could sit on the wide ledge beneath the big bay window and stare out across the river where the ferries once ran.

I don't really remember too much of what I dreamed about while sitting on that window ledge. Probably I imagined being a ferry pilot with strong hands gripping the sweep against the rush of the tide as I made sure to square off to the entrance of the slip. I'm sure my hands must have grasped the broomstick in sympathetic urgency until my scow was safely tied. Then I imagine that it was time to sweep the deck and I started in -- gradually moving the dirt and dust and occasional crumbs from north to south in Great Grandfather's dining room.

I was always careful to take my time and to do a good job. I was particularly attentive to the cracks between the cupped lips of adjoining boards and made sure to follow each one with the arc of the broom turned lengthwise to the crack. When I got down to the doorway, I had to move across to the south wall and begin the other direction for a couple of sweeps but then I would fetch the dustpan and, gathering all into a pile, flick it into the pan and take it out the back door where it could be returned to the soil. Grandma always said that if the Good Earth saw fit to visit with us, the least we could do was to let it go home at the end of its visit.

This was my chore. Summer after summer but I didn't mind. In fact when it came time to reallocate tasks as we grew older, I always passed up the opportunity of change, sticking stubbornly to Great Grandfather's floors.

Then one year, as school ended, we were unable to pack for our summer in Maine. Other things required that we put off our visit until the fall and, although we were all most disappointed, we survived and finally, in October, made the trip. It wasn't going to be a long visit -- after all school was in session -- but it would have to do for this year.

The trees' colors became more and more brilliant as we drove north. Autumn in New England -- as the saying goes -- is the best season of the year. The view from Great Grandfather's dining room window was the most spectacular I had ever seen. Twin sugar maples behind the house framed the dark blue river with a crown of crimson-orange. The popples and birches further down the hill had transformed into a brilliant yellow carpet. Bathed in the golden light of early morning or early evening, the impression I had was much like that of seeing a favorite black and white movie in its colorized version for the first time. So much the same -- and yet so different! Not necessarily better or worse -- just different. But for me the colorization of that view across the river became a most important milestone in my life. For the first time, I realized that things don't stay the same. Even those things we feel are permanent and secure change, and we must adapt as well.

I remember that day, sitting on Great Grandfather's window ledge. I remember feeling that this was the day that I grew beyond the helpful child. The broomstick in my hands was no longer the sweep of the ferryman. It was passed as the scepter of adulthood; the staff of understanding; the majesty of self.

I began sweeping Great Grandfather's floor. North to South, turn the broom, clean the cracks. I don't remember my specific train of thought as I swept but it must have been quite intense for I remember being suddenly startled to hear my grandmother saying:

"No, no, Dear, you're doing it all wrong!"

"What do you mean Grandma, I'm doing it the way I always do it!"

"Yes, Dear, you are. And that's what's wrong. In the past you've always swept Great Grandfather's floor in the summer. In the summer sweeping north to south cleans the cracks and keeps them open so the cool air of the basement can help cool the house. But it's not summer any longer. It's time to change. Time to change from north to south to east to west. By sweeping east to west, the cracks are gradually filled in and help to keep the cold winter air in the basement from creating cold drafts along the floors up here. We have to do lots of things differently in the winter. Our needs respond to the seasons -- and the seasons change so. But there will be another summer -- and our old familiar needs. Until then we all have to adapt to different things, perhaps only a little at a time, but we all do it. Great Grandfather's floors have seen the tears of many years. Different tears in different years but his boards have weathered the storms in part because we grow around them and with them. North to south is for the summer -- it's time to leave that behind. Now we go forward, east to west, for a change."

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