Today I clean the Anthony’s
for the last time. I wrote a little bit
about them in the Good Neighbors essay.
I’ve learned over the years that the sense of loss at these farewells
creeps in quickly and is stronger than I would expect. I used to say goodbye to friends as though
they were going off on a weeklong trip and we would be seeing each other again
soon, which cloaked the parting in a festive air of liberation. If a friend was leaving I was looking forward
to seeing how upcoming adventures would change and invigorate them. In the case of customers the relationship
sometimes ended because they were moving into a retirement home where
housecleaning was included in the deal, and I felt frankly relieved to shed
responsibility. As much as I love my
customers, I am always happy when a work obligation, no matter how well
rewarded when fulfilled, is removed from my life. I float on the anticipation of freedom that will
come with extra time and energy and look forward to new opportunities that I
will be able to explore.
The Anthony’s are from the
beginning of my second wave of customers when I went back to work after a three
year break to take care of my son. They
all came to me through Liz Hunt, a friend and neighbor from when we lived near
the Governor’s Mansion. To tell the
truth I really don’t feel up to writing about all this, which is ironic since
it has been one of my fantasies ever since I started cleaning. Even when I worked as a server on the salad
bar in Balentine’s Cafeteria I spent hours thinking about what how I would
entertain an audience of other food service people with insightful and humorous
observations about the job of feeding the public. So here I am taking one of the first well
deserved steps toward retirement from a very fulfilling life cleaning other
people’s homes and facing the fact that I’m not sure I can do this (write about
it) now that the time has come.
I guess I am like my
customers who appreciate me when I don’t come even though it might be an inconvenience;
when they do a job I would normally be doing they remember why they hired me to
do it in the first place. Among many
other things they remember the patience required to complete the details that
will go unnoticed by casual observers, but add up to a home that feels orderly
and well cared for. As I go back and
forth between this essay and washing my own dirty dishes I wish someone else
would tell my story, or that I could tell it to them and they would present it
in coherent prose that doesn’t put the reader to sleep or make them cross eyed
with incomprehension. I have yet to read
an account of a servant who has enjoyed the depth of friendship that has
benefited me for the last 27 years among my customers. I see so much advertising about employees
being members of a corporate family and think how lucky I am to have real
intimate and honest partnerships with every one of my customers. We trust each other, tolerate each other,
sometimes we get irritated with each other and barely keep from striking out in
anger. We experience in the limited
amount of time that I’m in their house most of the emotions that are associated
with home and family, in the sanctuary of the family.
I wish I knew how to shape a
story to convey the sense I have gained over the years that a house really is a
sanctuary for its inhabitants. Even if
people don’t have altars in corners with candles and pictures of saints or
loved ones, there are relics of special bonds to loved ones throughout the
home. No one has more opportunities to
handle these brittle icons of hopes and memories than the housecleaner and, if
they are lucky enough to be able to visit and share stories with the customer,
the various bones and images are literally brought to life, infused with the
history and aspirations of the owners.
So today I go to the
Anthony’s, who moved from their big old house in a historic downtown
neighborhood of shady streets and progressive families mixed in with a few
remaining low rent rooming houses, into a 14th floor unit in a new
high rise building. They can see their
old neighborhood from the floor to ceiling windows in the new condo, as well as
the highway leading south to the beach.
At night they look down at moving lights on the streets and see the
lights stacked in windows of all the other tall buildings of our growing city
center. Last spring I watched the sun
set, the bottom of the great orange circle touching the distinct line of the
horizon, and stood transfixed at the western window watching it …now here is a
problem. How do I describe the
motion. I have to stop because I cannot
think of a word that contains the deliberation of movement that impresses me
with such a view of the sunset. It
reminds me of a dancer making a deliberate, pageant like exit from the stage,
gliding with perfect control not a millisecond too soon, into the wings. This is the impression I got from watching
that one sunset from their west window, followed by the appearance in the
darkness of Venus and Jupiter like two jewels suspended in the fresh sea of
night.
Well, I suppose it is now
evident that I would bring romantic notions to any job or situation. I guess what’s important to me are the people
who can live with that, the customers who have kept me over the years are the
ones who could put up with a woman who sees magic in everything and looks for
love in every nook and cranny. All this
romance can be very distracting. It fans
the flames of emotion and leads to a lack of self control. What I’m getting at here is that my customers
have been heroically patient with my habit of showing up later and later and
taking longer and longer to complete tasks.
This morning I am calculating
for the last time how late I can arrive and still have plenty of time to finish
before they get home. I can probably get
away with 11am; there would be time for 30 minutes of rest, or time
wasted and I could be leaving by 5:30. Their son and daughter in law are arriving
tonight from Taiwan, so there’s no telling what their schedule will
be. What time do flights from the other
side of the globe usually arrive? My
first guess is late in the evening. I
want to make brownies before leaving but only half of the dishes are washed and
I’ve got that funny feeling in my chest.
I went to work yesterday with
the intention of working only two or three hours to hold a customer over till I
could come for a full cleaning- I wanted to be in good shape for the big final
cleaning at the Anthony’s today, but of course I got intoxicated on the after
party dirt in the Hat house (they have a collection of hats hanging in the
breakfast nook) and ended up rushing through to finish in 4 ¼ hours. I still must take my dog for a walk and take
a quick bath. I know I will need 30
minutes in the bed before I leave just to keep the shaking down. Brownies would be so nice. But with an hour left before time to leave
they will have to wait. I can’t rush
anymore. I can’t fit things in the way I
used to, like spreading light or peanut better a little bit farther. My body rebels at the least expectation of
hurrying through life.