The Window Washer Woman

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We travel to the same beachfront community almost every summer. On each visit one of the first things we do is drive along the main street, which is challenging in the best of times when we arrive in the early morning hours as delivery trucks outnumber people, and nerve-racking in the worst of times when we arrive later in the day and visitors jockey for space with bicycle riders, dog-walkers, new parents pushing baby carriages, and quick-darting joggers. We cruise slowly and look for familiar restaurants, tee-shirt shops, our favorite news store, seafood market,

and the ice cream stand. Our first relaxing breath comes when we realize what we love most about this place is still here.But no other familiar sight is more comforting than the window washer woman.

During our early morning walks, we would spot her little station wagon and then we would look for the stocky but sturdy window washer woman wearing patched jeans, with a head of thick, unruly, curly black hair held somewhat in place with a red paisley bandanna. Sure enough, there she would be, a bucket of soapy water on the ground beside her, a towel thrown over her shoulder, her arms reaching up with the soapy water then the squeegee.

Her movements were quick and purposeful to produce the best results with the fewest actions to wash off the previous day’s pollen, kicked-up dust from passing cars, and the ever-present seagull droppings. Never stopping to rest for long, she would finish one storefront window and move on to the next. She tackled each with the same vigor, whether the windows were large, single panes of glass, or multiple, smaller panes surrounded with wood requiring more finesse to clean the corners.

We sometimes tried to catch her attention to say good morning, but she was focused on completing her task, efficiently and quickly. She’d work for a time, then pack her tools into her car and move along to the next block, the next window, and the one after that.

Then one year we didn’t see the window washer woman or her car. We looked at each other in alarm. “We must just be missing her,” we reassured one another. “Maybe she’s not here yet or she already finished.” And we’d look for signs of sparkling glass windows where we used to see her most often.

After not seeing her for a couple of years, we worried that she’d fallen ill, could no longer handle the physical work of washing windows, or worse. We talked about her as if mourning a friend who had died too young. “It just isn’t the same without her,” we said.

Then finally after several years of not seeing the window washer woman, we spotted her one day, this time on the beach with her fishing pole stuck in a piece of PVC pipe in the sand, cap pulled down over her eyes as she scanned the water for signs that the fish were biting. “She’s here,” we cried happily. “She’s okay!”

We watched as the window washer woman, her hair still wildly curly but now mostly gray, trudged up the beach toward the parking lot, her gait slow and deliberate, as if moving too quickly could cause pain. She reached into the back of a car, a small hatchback, not the station wagon we’d come to associate with her. We stretched our necks to peek into the car, looking for the long squeegee, white bucket, stack of towels, and other window washing supplies, but saw none.

We discussed this new information as we walked on the beach, dodging the gentle waves and gathering shells and stones for our beach terrarium back home.

Later as we headed back toward our car, we saw the window washer woman at her post on the beach again, a pair of binoculars held up to her eyes, her hands brown from the sun, her fingers slightly curled and arthritic. We headed in her direction.

Once we were close we asked, “Hello! It’s so good to see you! Any fish biting?”

She dropped her binoculars barely an inch and peered at us with little interest. “Nope.” We wanted to ask her name, wanted to call her something other than the window washer woman, wanted to tell her how glad we were to see her again, but the binoculars were already back in place, scanning the horizon, watching the fishing boats and gulls offshore for signs of whether there were fish to be caught.

The next morning during our early morning walk through town we spotted her again on the sidewalk, almost invisible she was so close to the building, hard at work washing windows. Should we say hello, we asked each other? Should we just walk by? But as we got closer, as she turned to take the towel off her shoulder, she spotted us out of the corner of her eye. We waved.

She glanced at us through squinty eyes that had spent many an hour checking windows for dirty streaks or searching the ocean for dinner. We thought there might be a flicker of recognition. She looked at us for half a beat, showed a hint of a smile, and nodded. Then she pulled the towel off her shoulder and resumed cleaning the window.

She wouldn’t miss us if she never saw us again, but we’ll keep looking for her. In the hectic pace and chaos that sometimes defines life, a surprising amount of comfort comes in seeing that some things are exactly where they belong.

July 2016

 

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