Heavy fog blankets the morning and snow from last week’s storm melts away – only the largest wind-blown drifts remain, now edged with grime. Still reeling from retail madness of the holidays, only now am I taking stock of things and beginning my favorite thing to do for New Year – clean. Yesterday, M and I stripped our lovely Christmas tree of ornaments and collected other seasonal nick-nacks snagging dust around the house. We left up the mistletoe because, hey, any excuse for kissing is a good one.
Our house is quite small but even if it were bigger, we would face the same problems of clutter. It’s the way we are. Piles of papers and things await a decision – toss or keep – seem to appear overnight. Glancing over at a single, cluttered shelf I see an envelope and request for money from my favorite organization: Doctor’s Without Borders. I will write that check and send it off as I do every year, at least once. Maybe today. A receipt from Barnes & Noble – I will toss. Nail polish bottle (M’s) a rock, a pair of sunglasses, a plastic cup of rubber bands, seed catalogues, a box for a camera bought months ago — this is the flotsam of my life that clutters the corners, drawing clouds of dust. Some of it went from the table where I write, to that shelf only inches away – weeks, or even months ago.
The table – I aspire to keep it clear, ready to accommodate our family meals together. Two days ago, it was empty, now M’s school books, the latest bills to have arrived, a box of tissues, a salt shaker, two candle holders – only one with a candle, bobby pins and the warranty and instructions for my new ‘Eureka!’ (heh heh) vacuum cleaner cover the surface. And a nickel. That’s in addition to my laptop and now, empty cup. This is the spot we all gravitate to – nestled in against a radiator, between two windows. We take turns studying, writing, reading here and when it is time to eat, push it all aside for our plates.
What I wonder is how some people move through life without letting stuff accumulate around them the way it does in our house, daily, hourly? Is it a gene that I (and my loved ones here with me) are missing? While I am sure that much of it is learned, it is also the way we are made. Growing up, my mother was the messy one and my father, compulsively neat and clean — best illustrated by their top drawers in their shared bureau. My father’s drawer slid open easily revealing a neat pile of socks, underwear and spare change and his nail clipper. The waxy, paper liner patterns clearly visible between these neatly arranged piles. My mother also kept her lingerie in her top drawer – and scarves and socks, perhaps – although I cannot conjure up what exactly was in that explosion of chaos (except for the stale pack of Kent cigarettes I once pilfered). It crossed my mind more than once that my father left my mother because she was a slob and he a neat-nick, a notion backed up by the fact that he left her for a woman as fastidious as he.
For me, although I like order and cleanliness, not enough to spend my precious free time trying to achieve it. As long as the bed is made, dishes, clothes, our bodies and the bathroom get cleaned regularly, I tend to let the rest of it go until it really maddens me and then, dealing with it becomes cathartic. I guess I’m not there today – because, now that I think about it, there are so many other things I’d rather do – take a walk, cook, read. But maybe later, ‘Eureka!’ and I will take a spin across the hardwood floors.