Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Doin' what comes naturally
Like it or not, we all dish the dirt. In that much
of our days are consumed with cleaning up the
flotsam and jetsam that Mother Nature throws
our way. Given spring has finally arrived here
we've been cleaning up our act. Frank spends
the bulk of each day in the yard removing the
remains of last summer, fall, and winter. Along
with trying to manage an already healthy crop
of dandelions and other flora vermin. Meanwhile
I'm doing the same inside. Along with opening
and cleaning the windows. Thus inside and out
we're deep into that renewal process known as
"spring cleaning." And possibly enjoying it...
What a pane
At times we've been known to complain that
central Montana can be a rather filthy place.
Surrounded by miles upon miles of open range
and cultivated fields, the dust flies whenever
the wind blows. Here in town, our neighbors
tend to have a rather cavalier attitude about
sweeping, mowing, and weeding. Hence much
of our time is trying to deal with their mess.
Yet as I was washing our windows I couldn't
help but be recall how DIRTY Manhattan was.
Living in a hi-rise, one rises above it all. Yet
soot, grime, and all sorts of other urban debris
ended up floating to the top. What the yuck?
Back at you
Routine maintenance is part of life. When it
appears to be snowing one must clear the way
by cleaning their glasses. Windows usually
need a good swipe on a seasonal basis. Back
in New York, my cleaning lady and I did our
windows weekly. You can't imagine the black,
oily, and obviously toxic goo that clung to our
panes against all odds. In order to sit outside
on our balcony, one first had to sweep, mop,
and wipe everything. Otherwise you risked
leaving the scene of the crime with evidence
on our ass. Thus wherever one lives, even in
a high rent district, shit happens. Frequently.
If only somebody could find a way to insure
one never leaves a ring in the tub. Or smudge
on a mirror. Or debris atop the rug. Fortunately
the older we get, the harder it is to see all of the
above. Leading to a blissfully fuzzy purgatory
where even if everything needs a light dusting,
nobody knows or cares. While I worry about
someday leaving a trail of "old people" dirt,
I'm considering lowering my standards. But
not yet. Nothing is as satisfying as a job well
done. Nor as thrilling as a house that's clean
as a whistle. So for now call me Mr. Clean!