My Macrorie Experiment

I think I'd be doing Ken Macrorie a disservice if I didn't feel compelled to write creatively after reading a selection from Telling Writing. So I did. And here is what I came up with after 30 minutes of fingers-to-computer-key writing:


It’s Saturday, and I’m cleaning my grandparents’ house so they can sell it. My grandfather has moved out, and I don’t know where he is living. In fact, when I ask about him, my uncles and aunts don’t tell me. Maybe they don’t know, but I figure someone has to.
I help my Mimi sort out some boxes in the living room. She stands next to me: “Jessie, take anything from this box that you might want.” She puts aside Boy Scout pins and Lions Club medals, which means they must be important. We throw away the bits of trash in the box—old receipts and small calendars with scribbling of meetings and dates of car shows and auctions. I try not to cry. I find a pewter letter opener with a dragon head and put it in my pocket. It looks special—like something my Pop would’ve picked up at the Williams Grove flea market on a Saturday morning. Mimi tells me she is trying not to cry, but I don’t reassure her and say “me too” or “it’s ok.” Instead I just stand there and consider taking a Dillsburg tire store pencil holder. It’s old, but I know it doesn’t have any value. I just know it’s something my Pop would carry in his pocket everywhere. I want it as a momento. (But aren't momentos for people who are dead? He's not dead!) I wonder where the hell he is that he’s not taking his pocket pencil with him. I look at my Mimi, her head down and focused, rattling on about who might want what. And I try not to cry.
My mom interrupts us and tells me that Jon needs help cleaning out the shed, so I leave Mimi to her box. I think it takes her all day to sort through it. Outside my stepdad and brother are carrying random pieces of wood and throwing it into a trailer heaped with junk. I wonder where the trailer is going or who is taking it, but all people keep telling me is that it all belongs to my grandpa. Underneath the wood I see some chairs, a mattress, a lamp. I’m confused because if the trailer is for Pop, why are they throwing junk on top of the “nice” things? It hits me: we don’t care. Well, I care. So why haven’t I called my grandpa since Christmas? I go out to carry in a load from the shed and it’s fucking freezing.
Since I forgot to bring gloves, my shed duty is short-lived. I tell my husband that I’m going back inside to do “women’s work” and I smile as I walk away because I know I’ve just made a joke between the two of us.
Inside the house, my aunts are wiping down the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge. My aunt asks me if I want a jar of olives and makes a funny face. She’s being sarcastic, but hell yeah I want the olives. I personally believe that olives never go bad and I’m very into drinking martinis. I choose a couple other things and make a pile on the counter to take home with me, alongside a picture of me and my Pop when I was a baby.
When my family is involved in any task, we usually do things at high speed. It’s like a tornado runs through town, and instead of a trail of complete chaos, your house is clean or your garage door is fixed or your carpet is installed or the hole for your new fish pond is dug up and ready to be filled. We say: “It’s the Shaffer in us.”
My mom asks me to steam clean the floors, but before I can grab the mop, Mimi stops me and asks, “Now. Have you ever used one of these things before?”
“Yes, Mimi.”
But she helps me anyway. To be honest, I’ve never filled a steam mop up, so I really did need her help.
Mimi helps me funnel water into the chamber and asks again if I’ve used one of these things before.
“I’ll be fine.”
I slide the mop over the hallway floors, and I have to admit that it’s relieving to clean up dirt even when it’s not “your” dirt to clean up. The mop pad even catches the edge of a spider web and I watch as its dusty wisps split from the wall. It’s a satisfying feeling.
Each bedroom has been emptied of furniture. I realize I haven’t been in these rooms since my grandma left my grandpa two years ago. Since then, I’ve only seen my grandpa on his porch or once when I came in he was in the sun porch living room asleep with his head slung back and snoring. I remember being a kid and always trying to tickle Pop’s nose or put hats on his head while he slept in his chair with re-runs of Hee-Haw playing in the background. He’d swing his hand around, call me a “little shit,” and I’d run upstairs to laugh.
I am almost finished with the floors. I hear my mom tell my uncle, “Jessica is busy steam cleaning,” which means I don’t have to carry something heavy or go outside again without gloves. I take my time with this job, making sure to clean every floor board with precision like I’m going to get bonus points for doing such a good job. I guess I just want to make my uncle happy—he sells houses, so clean floors make this house easier to sell.
In the living room, I have few spots to soak up since we still have a few pieces of furniture to move. I slide the mop around the edge of the room, making sure to hit the corners with extra cleaning zeal. My aunt calls out to ask if I want to join everyone for dinner—she says it’s a “thank you “ for helping on a Saturday morning. I tell her “Sure,” as I smush a frantic spider hurrying across the floor.