Spreading My Wings: Chapter 8
| October 28, 2020“Now that you are in Eretz Yisrael, girls, you need to learn how to keep your room clean the Israeli way"
Thursday night, there was an announcement over the PA system: “Sponja demonstration by Rebbetzin Rosenfeld in the hall outside the laundry room!”
It turns out that even though seminary had a cleaning crew that did our hallways and the shared bathrooms for each wing, each room was in charge of cleaning everything inside it — floors, windows, showers, mirrors, sinks, and shelves. And that was on top of doing our own laundry!
I don’t know about you, but as a girl from a typical home in Kew Garden Hills, I had never before cleaned a shower or a floor. It was only me and Gila at home, and as the older sister, Erev Shabbos found me really busy; from the minute I came home from school I’d pitch in with gefilte fish, kugel, cakes and cookies… you name it. Sweeping, emptying garbage cans, setting the table, sure. But mopping a floor? Doing a bathroom? That was what Betty did on Tuesdays! Who could have guessed that I would be learning balabusta skills in seminary? And what did sponja mean anyway?
From every corner of the building, girls converged on the small hallway. I could tell that a lot of girls were as curious as I was. We piled in, leaving a small space in the center of the room for our teacher. When the room seemed like it was positively bursting, Rebbetzin Rosenfeld took the sponja stick in her hand, smiled up at the human wall around her, and started to speak.
“Now that you are in Eretz Yisrael, girls, you need to learn how to keep your room clean the Israeli way. I have been doing sponja on my floors for 40 years. I have a special method. Pay close attention.” Then she paused. There was a thoughtful look on her face. “You never know, girls. Some of you might use this skill for longer than just this year. One talmidah called me up a few weeks ago and said, ‘Remember your sponja demonstration that first Thursday night? I’ve been living in Eretz Yisrael for 15 years already and I still do sponja that way.’”
I surprised myself by caring about that story. I had never consciously considered living in Eretz Yisrael and I was just getting over the idea of mopping a floor to begin with! But for some reason, I suddenly found myself paying even closer attention.
Rebbetzin Rosenfeld carefully spilled a small amount of soapy water from her bucket onto the floor. Heads craned in from all directions. Using the bare sponja stick, she swooshed here, there, and everywhere. The water quickly turned gray; we could see clumps of hairy lint floating inside it.
“Now we collect it,” she announced. “I never use the drain for sponja. This is the best method.”
She then carefully gathered the dirty water to the center of the floor and soaked it up, dirt and all, with her floor rag. She dipped the floor rag into the bucket and wrung it out. Then she draped the wrung-out rag over the bottom of the sponja stick and used it to shine the floor.
She straightened with a triumphant smile. She was old enough to have been doing sponja for 40 years, I thought, and she wasn’t even breathless. Impressive. And the floor was shining.
“Thursday night is always cleanup night,” said Rebbetzin Rosenfeld. “Thursday curfew is at nine p.m. every week. The madrichot will be coming around to check on your rooms at ten thirty. Make sure your room is ready for Shabbos by then.”
As quickly as it had been built, the human wall crumbled. I walked slowly back to room 312, thinking. With Aviva and Layla and I out and about so much this week, I hadn’t really spent much time getting to know them. Maybe cleanup would be nice.
But when I got to our room, Layla had more efficient plans. “Let’s make a rotation,” she declared. “Each of us will be responsible for a specific job every week. It’ll cut out the back and forth and we’ll know that everything gets done.”
I shrugged internally. It was smart and logical, if not warm and fuzzy.
to be continued…
(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 833)
Oops! We could not locate your form.
RELATED CONTENT
If you are married to a person who has (or might have) ADHD, you might feel ignored and lonely in your relationship
I’d planned to do it. I really had. Every evening, I’d promised myself to sit down and do it. But something always distracted me
A light bulb lit up in my mind. My daughter was exactly like me. If she had ADHD, did that mean I did, too?
While there are quiet times in the ER, anyone with experience knows they don’t last long
I’m wondering if this is going to be my second time calling 911 from the ER
