From the American Scene: A Suburban Note
In March, the forsythia buds swell and the ice in our unpaved driveway turns to mud that tugs at the soles of our shoes. Swarms of tiny black bugs appear whenever the sun comes out, and the salesmen arrive. They bring paint and vacuum cleaners, insurance for this world and the next; samples of cosmetics and kitchen utensils; and bushels of last year’s apples, rotten on bottom, firm and polished on top.
The first to come after the winter hibernation was a blond young man, bent under the weight of a vacuum cleaner. He stood in my doorway with the rain dripping from his hair and the heavy box of attachments dragging him down on one side. I didn’t have the heart to send him away. The living-room rug was sprinkled with cracker crumbs. I thought I had nothing to lose but a few minutes of a gray day.
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