A Deep Clean and an Old Memory

Today I started a deep clean on our home after our recent human and dog guests. I started the deep clean with getting all the bed linens washed in the guest room on the lowest floor of our house.Neither the guests nor the dogs created any messes, I just needed to deal with the usual dog hair and dust.  One of my favorite things about living here is that three of our floors rarely collect dust. I honestly think of it as a small miracle.

Tomorrow I’ll tackle a few more rooms on my cleaning quest. I’ve decided to take my time and do a little each day. Joe and I always clean up after ourselves, and we were just talking about how fortunate we are that we both like things tidy. My brain simply works better when the space around me is clean.

That wasn’t always the case. Growing up, my mom worked and the five of us kids (I’m the oldest, for those who don’t know) were responsible for keeping the house livable. Sometimes we pulled it off, sometimes not so much, especially with so many friends and family members tracking in dirt. I still have a vivid memory of wanting to kill my sister (four years younger) for tracking in mud right after I had mopped the dining room floor. When I was fifteen, I started an after-school job to help with our family finances, so I didn’t have to contribute as much to the household chores. But it always seemed like if I was home for dinner, I was the one doing the dishes along side another sibling.

I’m not someone who goes into other people’s homes and judges their cleaning abilities. But there was one time, when I was seventeen, that left me completely shocked. An older co-worker asked me for a ride home one snowy day in late December of 1973. She usually walked a few miles to work, but because of the snow I told her I’d drive her. When we got to her house, she invited me in to meet her children.

Inside, the house was cold and bare. Garbage was strewn across the kitchen and living room as she led me back to where her girls were. Looking back, I’d guess the oldest was around eight and the younger maybe three. She had left them alone during her eight-hour restaurant shift. The house had almost no furniture, just a few kitchen-style chairs and a bare mattress. The girls were sitting on the mattress wrapped in a blanket against the cold. What I assumed was dog feces lay in piles on the floor, though I never saw a dog. I remember asking her if I could drive back into town and buy them some groceries, but she declined, saying she’d be okay. She told me she’d be able to get fuel oil for the heater in a few days and that they would manage until then.

I cried the entire drive home. I can’t remember if I ever told my mom. If I had, she would have called social services in a heartbeat. So would I today. Back then, I didn’t know anything about social services or what help was available.

Every so often I think back to that visit and feel sad for her circumstances. I also think it had a lasting impact on my own need (and desire) to keep my home tidy.

Maybe that’s why, all these years later, there’s still something comforting about putting a house back in order, one small task at a time. It reminds me that care, whether for a home or a family, happens in the quiet, ordinary moments where we make things a little warmer, a little safer, a little better than they were before.