Grave's Disease

The Carsons leave for the summer this Monday.  They are eager to begin the long journey across the country; on the way they will visit many family and friends.  The big excitement this year is that they are going a little by sea, but mostly by car, to Alaska.  I am looking forward to post cards from the trip.

Their departure lightens my load and gives me a chance to catch up.  That’s 3 hours a week that can go to something else or another customer.  Work hours are money.  There are no vacation-hours, or days or weeks.  My son wants to go to the beach, and I am calculating, "how many days can I afford to be spending money instead of working for it?"  And then there is sickness.  Whether we give in or not, sickness controls us.   If  the affected person can’t think creatively and come up with innovative solutions, they could be squeezed doubly in the fist of disease; unless of course it is a disease that gives energy and optimism, and has the victim walking the streets at night singing and reciting poetry.  Is that a disease to want to get rid of?

Not until the muscles begin to shrivel and the heart won’t stop racing, or it is hard to get out of bed in the morning and every day spent cleaning means the following day must be scheduled for bed rest.  I guess that’s what they mean when they talk about lost productivity; but lost work hours are gained reading time.  Literacy is free, but  for the person whose sole source of income is a job, time is not. So sickness is an opportunity to read and transcend money worries.  If you can’t afford to take time off for vacations, sickness, especially if there is no pain, is an unlikely angel.  It creates slack where slack is needed. 

My life has been a straddling of the poverty line, elected, I thought, on a platform of political values. The less I made, the less I paid to Caesar. 

I really liked the quote in the Clandestino video about your country being an accident of birth, like your color.  It is something we have no control over, our own birth.  We like to think we choose our career, or path in life.  I always clung to the idea that I chose to be with a man or woman, that I chose to be a housecleaner and that I chose to have a child with out marrying the father.  Now, I question whether many of these actions were really chosen consciously, as a result of knowing intent.  I wonder how many of my behaviors were just the scratching of a synaptic itch.  

Thyroid is supposed to mean shield shaped like a door.  It makes me think of a butterfly or moth.  Thyroid.  Sheeit.  I never in my life thought about thyroids.  Why would I?  Like why would a white person think about color?  We think about our toes when they get cold, or when the nails grow, but the thyroid? 

Some prolific molecule, getting into the thyroid, is being mistaken for a messenger from the pituitary gland.  My brain is being reprogrammed by a molecule made not just in the USA, but in my own body.  Homegrown subversive elements are literally running the show.

As a result of thousands of people devoting themselves over the centuries and across cultures to scientific research, it was my extremely good fortune that my retired pathologist customer, Paul Carson, was able to recognize and identify what was happening.  He had taken an interest in the thyroid during his years of practice and I was lucky enough to be in his house once a week complaining of the heat. Thanks to Paul, I had a very good idea of what would happen before I even got past the poverty guards to the doctor.  I would be taking this 'pill.'

It proved very difficult to get, that radioactive pill, but it did the trick and put me back on the 21^st century highway of productivity. 

Somos Mas Americanos/We Are More American

Ya me gritaron mil veces que me regrese a mi tierra,
They've already told me a thousand times, get back to my country

Porque aqui no quepo yo
Because here is not where I belong

Quiero recordarle al gringo: Yo no cruce la frontera, la frontera me
I want to remind the gringo: I didn't cross the border, the border

cruzo.
crossed me.



America nacio libre, el hombre la dividio. Ellos pintaron la raya, para
America was born free, it was man that divided it.  They painted the line, so

que yo la brincara y me llaman imbasor es un error bien marcado 
I would jump it and they could call me invader, it's a mistake well marked
 
nos quitaron ocho estados quien es aqui el imbasor. Soy extranjero en
they took eight states, who here is the invader?  I am a stranger in
 
mi tierra, y no vengo a darles guerra, soy hombre trabajador.
my land, and I don't come to make war, I am a working man.
 
Y si no miente la historia, aqui se asento en la gloria la poderosa nacion
And if history doesn't lie, here was established in its glory, a powerful nation

entre guerreros valientes, indios de dos continentes, mezclados
between brave fighters, indians of two continents, mixed

con espanol. Y si a los siglos nos vamos: somos mas americanos,
with Spanish.  And if we go through the centuries:  we are more American,
 
somos mas americanos que el hijo del anglo-saxon.
we are more American than the son of the Anglo-Saxon.
 
Nos compraron sin dinero las aguas del rio bravo. Y nos quitaron a 
Without money, they bought our Rio Bravo.  And they took
 
Texas, Nuevo Mexico, Arizona y Colorado. Tambien volo California y
Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and Colorado.  California and
 
Nevada con Utah no se llenaron, el estado de Wyoming, tambien
Nevada were gone too and Utah did not satisfy them, the state of Wyoming,
 
nos lo arrebataronYo soy la sangre del indio Soy latino soy mestizo
they also got away with.  I am the blood of indian.  I am latino I am mestizo
 
Somos de todos colores Y de todos los oficios Y si contamos los siglos
We are of all colors.  And of all offices.  And if we count the centuries
 
Aunque le duela al vecino Somos mas americanos Que todititos los
Although it hurts the neighbor We are more American Than all those
gringos.
gringos.

Cluck Old Hen

I added all the money my most generous customer gave me in the last year and divided that by the number of hours I worked to justify charging Doctor Leo 25 whopping dollars an hour.  It was good to have a place to publicly declare my intended fee (Thanks Blogspot) thereby making it awkward to back down from placing such a high value on my services.  Now that I have spent several hours in the house and dealt once again with this customer that I had dropped all those years ago, and now that I’m actually receiving more money for the work, I feel much better about setting such a high rate.

I still find Leo very disappointing as a customer, and the house is floating in dust like the magical blanket on the front lawn after a few hours of newly fallen snow.  There are; correction, were, cobwebs woven and long since abandoned under the seats of every dining room chair, and all the exposed wood around the oriental carpets was dotted with generations of dead bugs and their lifetime of dried up drips of body fluids.  This kind of stuff doesn’t happen over night, it takes a long time to accumulate.  Every time I start to feel angry or righteous about the level of funk to which the house has sunk, I think of how fortunate I am to have so much work and at such a rewarding rate of return.  Leo’s personality and Carolyn’s illness are however another intractably depressing story.  The Doctor is highly skilled at maneuvering conversations to suit his purposes and shows no motivation to allow real friendship to develop, or in the case of Carolyn and me, to resume where we left off.

Carolyn has faded markedly since I last saw her maybe 3 years ago.  Her memory is drastically curtailed and this impairment robs her and others of her once sharp personality.  Though Carolyn was always the most gracious woman I have ever known, there was a purposeful angularity to her that outlined her strong identity.  Now she is left with her generous grace, but little of the direction that once made her such an inspiring example for me as a younger woman.  It is still a pleasure to be around her, but the following day I find myself overcome by nebulous sadness, that settles in beside a really maddening irritation with her husband. 

The pattern was immediately reestablished as soon as Leo called the Carson’s to ask for my phone number; cluck about what the rooster said.  Anne was offended at the beginning of the call when he felt he had to remind her who he was.  “I know who you are, Leo.”   He really showed his lack of awareness though, when he asked if her mother was still alive; the Carsons, like his wife are in their eighties.  Anne gave him my new number and dismissed him summarily, which is the way he deals with me.

Carolyn is one of my inspirations, but Anne is my hero.  When I showed signs of waffling on the rate she said, “If he doesn’t like it you just walk away,” in a tone that left no room for negotiation.  You have to understand, I’ve been cleaning for the Carson’s for over 25 years, and Anne really is like a mother to me.  She is consistently generous with over the top praise and support for all of my endeavors, since I became a mother she constantly finds reasons to give me money, and she is impatiently dismissive of anyone who would diminish me; she is a 21^st century Guadalupana telling younger women that not only are they appreciated but they better damn well appreciate themselves and not let some fool take advantage of them. 

“That MAN!”  It was the same day I had cleaned for the Mansoor’s. 

Dr. Mansoor wanted to change from Fridays because they are often out of town for long weekends and he didn’t want to miss a cleaning.  He wanted to know if Wednesday would be reasonable.  I suggested Monday.  OK, he would take Monday.  This exchange took place in the middle of the day’s work; I had come downstairs for a scrubbing pad and was passing the computer on the way to the kitchen.  After his new day was settled I retrieved the pad and hauled my butt upstairs to scrub the film off the chrome fixtures in the bathroom. 

In the early years of my career, I thought I had chosen housecleaning because it was a job that did not require me to direct my mind to achieve someone else’s objectives.  I was selling my time and labor and reserving my mind for myself.  After considering which task is best completed first, and how to disassemble and reassemble storm windows or appliances to get at the crumbs and scum, my mind can wander and I have the pleasure of working with the company of my unfettered thoughts. 

I am happily removing the film from the chrome, letting my thoughts wander.  Like my son who goes out on the street and brings home friends, they return with new ideas.  So, what if I did two houses on Wednesday, would that be logistically possible?  Possibilities are offering themselves for my consideration and I am turning them over in my mind as I spray Clorox on the tile wall to see if I can get some of the light mildew stains to fade.  They are not very dark, or noticeable, I’ll just spray a little and see what happens.  It’s always good to go for any improvement.  Sometimes it is best to just concentrate in one very limited area and see how much you can improve till it looks like there’s nothing more that you can reasonably do, then move on to a new area.

Physical existence is limited.  Our minds can conceive of physical objects way beyond the reach of our fingers to touch, or our bodies to bump into.  The fingers can only do so much, we depend on them to communicate the vast reaches of the mind, but they themselves are trapped on our hands, attached to beastly bodies.  The fingers speak a primitive but sophisticated language, integrating touch and sound, sight and ideas.  The fingers enable touch to be informing, and, with a minimum of physical force, extremely provocative.  The fingers are magic.  Only people that have done any amount of cleaning know it is a task which requires capable hands and fingers.  Of course the body must be able to make its way with limber movements about the house, but the fingers must put all things back in order. 

There are some people in the world who never clean; have never gotten on their hands and knees to wipe a floor.  They just wear shoes or accept that the soles of their feet will get black and sticky when they walk barefoot.  Or they are distracted when someone else removes the detritus of life with wet rag and rinse water and assume this return to the original, unsoiled state happens by magic. House cleaners are not distracted from dirt, they are drawn to it with rag in hand and bucket of water.  They don’t put the rest of the world right; they just take care of what’s in their corner.  They are preparing an area where inhabitants can relax and rest and be with themselves in pleasant peace.  The fingers make real the imaginings of the mind.  “This soap dish would be a pleasure to use if it didn’t have all this old soap caked up on it.  Let’s get rid of that.”  What the fingers take so much time to do appears to the uninitiated like mundane slight of hand.   

As the trumpet shines and tosses bright notes into the air we admire the work of its maker and the one whose trained fingers make captivating music with it.  The musician’s breath and tongue are working together with the whole being to delight us with an ephemeral moment.  We applaud to show our appreciation for their dedication.  Housecleaners receive the same admiration from the people they clean for.  “Oh, I can see the front walkway.  What a difference!”   Housecleaners are loved by their customers.  It is the real reason we do it. 

 Apparently The Doctor is so inured to the dust around him, or so consumed by his own intellectual endeavors, that he cannot see it filtering the light coming through the lamp shade, or collecting under a book on the night table.  He has been paying someone to clean and so the house must be clean.  I venture this is not the mentality he brings to music.  When I point out tasks that remain to be done, he waves the remarks aside like flies at a picnic, apparently unaware that smeared windows distort the moving image of the magnolia tree’s branches waving in the breeze. 

My day of work at his house is ending; I am putting chemicals, brushes and the bucket away, making ready to go to the Carson’s.  These days I don’t often have two customers in one day, so I’m kind of high on the recovery, the ability to work happily for 8 hours.  Dr. Mansoor wants to write me a check, he imagines I could use some money, and I am cool with receiving money since there is always something to be paid for.  As he hands me the check he says, “let’s say you gradually work us to Wednesday.”  It was a statement.

The thing on my mind for weeks has been, why do I find him so irritating?  As I repeated the exchange standing over the kitchen sink at the Carson’s, Anne tossed off, “I give it 6 weeks.”  I think this will be much longer than 6 weeks, for many reasons.  I can make money at any house and certainly get more involvement from another customer.  I can’t, however, imagine a more organized or fascinating household.   Leo and Carolyn are both interesting individuals.  Their home is better than a museum; Leo has the book his great grandfather took medical notes in.  It might be older than that; I think it is written on vellum.  They have a lot of stuff from his country of youth.  I cannot resist people with roots in different cultures; I cannot decline the privilege of being in their house. 

As much as I love the house and all the stuff, I don’t like the way the piles of books have multiplied; they are under side tables and stacked beside couches.  They need to be culled and it is hard to imagine that happening.  Carolyn, though she seems to have forgotten how clean she once kept closets and baseboards, does notice the improvement in the windows and asks for tasks that she notices.  I have hope that as she sees furniture moved and the bugs exposed underneath, she will start getting her old ideas.  She has asked me to do certain windows and wondered if I will get to the upstairs bedrooms and bath.  So that gives me a reason to show her the dirt in the shadows.  I called her from the kitchen a couple of weeks ago and showed her all the bugs and their solid waste, under the cushions of the sofa and on the floor behind it.  “This is why it’s taking me so long to do things.  I don’t want you to think I’m being slack.  Once I get everything right I can move faster.”

“I didn’t notice.  I wouldn’t have thought to look under those cushions,” she said in a tone of vaguely curious surprise.  I’m counting on that remnant of curiosity, a thin thread to the Carolyn who could remember.

The most difficult moments are when she doesn’t even seem to remember who she is or the things she has done.  It really becomes complete amnesia and I don’t know how she does it, but she remains as trusting as Job. Once in a while she thrills me with a mildly cross word, her mind flashing out seeking answers or striking at the husband when he irritates her.  Mostly, right now, I just want to get the house clean.  It is hard to think about anything else.  It is not until the next day that I begin to think of how much I miss her and wish she did not require so much time in the bed.     

Money Matters

Today I return to cleaning for Leo, or Dr. Mansoor, and his wife Carolyn, who is seriously ill. Back when I first started out as a housecleaner, Carolyn was one of my first customers; she was recently divorced from her first husband and had just sent her youngest of four children off to college. Those first 10 or so years that I worked for her, Kay McCarthy, as she was called then, was single. She held a few different jobs over the years; working in the state legislature, then for an arts organization, and the last job was a three year contract to organize a statewide bicentennial celebration. The jobs for the arts group and the bicentennial required a lot of traveling around the state, but we still saw each other as she was occasionally home when I was there cleaning.

I also cleaned for Kay’s next door neighbor, Anne Carson. These two women were my earliest customers, and I have cleaned for both of them throughout the years. There was a three or four year period however, when Kay remarried and moved to the town of her new husband, Leo Mansoor, who prefers the formality of being referred to as Dr. Mansoor. When she and The Doctor relocated to Oak City, Kay called me and asked if I had any openings available. Luckily I did and soon I was cleaning for Carolyn (she began calling herself Carolyn because Doctor Mansoor, maybe you can guess, preferred the formality) and The Doctor. In the beginning I was careful not to call him by name because I did guess he preferred not just the formality but the elevating title. Then one day arranging a cleaning date with his daughter in law he overheard me refer to him as Leo when I said, “next week will work because Carolyn and Leo will be out of town and I’ll be free.” He often passed on to me copies of articles he had written over the years for various newspapers or magazines. That day I found a note attached to an article requesting that I refer to him as Doctor Mansoor. Ugh.

When I started back to cleaning for Leo and Carolyn in their new home, my rates were 20 dollars an hour, and stayed at that level for several years. When I told Carolyn about the impending increase, her only remark was that she had been wondering when my rates would go up and gave a nod of assent. About two weeks later, I found a letter in my mail box that exploded like an IED in my living room. The Doctor wanted to know what had prompted the unilateral decision to raise my rates and proclaimed that my fees were approaching those of a doctor.

I gave them two weeks notice and left.

Now Carolyn can not drive, she is unwell, and Leo wants ‘someone familiar in the house’ for his wife. Though my prices have gone down, his fee will include gratuity and be 25 dollars an hour.

Under the Kitchen Sink

Until recently, all of my customers have been people with nearly perfect houses that were orderly, well maintained and tastefully decorated. However, over the last few years since I was sick from the late stages of Graves Disease, I dropped several customers, leaving openings which as I began to recover from the radioactive iodine treatment, have been taken up by friends. This has been a mixed blessing.

Under the best circumstances, such as when a customer who recently lost a housecleaner hires me to take up where they left off, there is an enormous amount of work involved in getting a house to the point where I want it. This can take 5 to 8 visits, each entailing 7 or 8 hours of intensive cleaning. It is exhausting but satisfying work. When I have cleaned under appliances and behind beds, under rugs and movable pieces of furniture; after I have cleaned the most visible windows, and shined light bulbs and knick-knacks, I feel that I can relax and coast. I’ve gotten the house under control, I know where the dirt likes to hide, now a routine has evolved and I can cover the whole house in one visit.

At least that’s how it was for the last 25 years. It was rare that I took on a new customer, and when I did, it was almost always someone who had had some kind of cleaning service in the past. People who spend money to get their house cleaned on a regular basis tend to run a very organized household, which means a place for everything and everything in its place.

Some customers may have a little more clutter than the average perfect house, and they always fret about how difficult this stuff makes my job. I cringe at the thought of them seeing my living room with dirty socks tossed across the floor, my kitchen counters covered with dirty dishes and my bedroom, please, let’s just close the door. So I can honestly tell them they do not need to worry about clutter, stuff slows me down, yes, but pictures and pretty glass vases and decorative items are actually a pleasure to clean. I don’t even mind moving disheveled stacks of papers on desks; it is a game to see if I can clean under every thing and put it back just like it was.

In other words, over the years one of the pleasures of my job has been the order and refinement that enveloped me in my customers’ homes in contrast to the bohemian chaos in which I live. However, this comfort of working in spaces at once nurturing and disciplined came at a price. Often in my own home I turned over in my mind the question, “Why can’t I keep my house as neat and well organized as my customers?” It worried me that I was missing out on a level of happiness that I could be enjoying if I could only emulate their habits of neatness.

Now that I am cleaning for friends it is a felicitous change to be working in more familiar surroundings. They would rather hire me than a cleaning service because they are too embarrassed to let strangers see all the animal hair and personal effects laying around that they rarely bother to think about; visits from parents excluded. So I get to work for the same people I party with and they get a housecleaner who doesn’t care if they’re slack.

Of all of them, Chris is the definitely the slackest. The first day I cleaned for her she tuned into the British Cable show ‘How Clean is Your House?’ and we laughed at the way the two house cleaners registered shock at the really disgusting apartment of a seemingly hopeless bachelor. By the end of the show (they must have spent over 200 work hours cleaning that place) the two women had not only whipped the place into spanking clean ship-shape, but had also trained the guy to clean his own home. They berated him liberally for the most offensive areas among hundreds of square inches thick with cooked on, burnt on or just plain petrified crud. This model rocket enthusiast was appropriately sheepish and complied with docile humility as they put him to work. His young nephew had nominated him for the show because his mother would no longer allow visits with the cool uncle that helped him make and launch model rockets. The nephew was even drafted to help with the cleanup. I could see why Chris said this show gave her courage to finally face the problem of her messy home. Not only were these places exponentially worse, but she had seen the people trapped in these apparently hopeless situations, with the help of a pair of bossy, energetic women, conquer their own chaos.

We are engaged in the same scary quest; my self the cleaner and Chris the customer. In the past I never lasted more than a year cleaning in homes that required nearly the level of intervention needed in hers. After a certain period of time I succumbed to desperate feelings of anger and frustration at my inability to bring the house under control, and chose to leave instead of digging in and demanding more of the customer. While there have been the weekend marathon cleanings for friends moving out of scum smeared, dust encrusted apartments with mold creeping up the walls; they were limited one time deals that required two days of locomotive energy and then were forgotten. Bringing order to a house that is still lived in by the people who allowed it to fall into abysmal confusion requires a change in the behavior of the inhabitants

While chaos breeds chaos, order does not naturally emerge without a struggle. A decision must be made that unconscious, entrenched habits will be replaced with a conscious regime of self discipline in which possessions are given a place in the home to which they are returned when not in use. Mail cannot be delivered or returned to sender without a street and house number marked on the envelope; keys, bills, important papers need a place to rest as we need a house with an address to return to at the end of the day. There they can always be found when needed. When I enter a home gripped in the jaws of chaos, I become vulnerable to the same abuse visited on the possessions strewn about thoughtlessly. When the customer can’t find an important paper that should have been filed in a prearranged system, I am now included in the list of people asked, “has anyone seen such and such a paper;” only by the time I’m called upon for possible information about the missing possession, I’ve cleaned two other houses and am resting peacefully in my own. My mind can not immediately picture the many piles of unrelated items it encountered the two days ago that I was in that customer’s home. So I have to either push the customer to set up a system or remain subject to these random requests at unlikely hours, “I was just calling to ask if you saw a brown envelope with a little red bird logo, it has important pictures in it.”

In the past I lacked the self confidence to challenge the customer. I shied from the confrontation necessary to effect change in their behavior and chose instead to leave like a sailor abandoning a leaking ship. Now however, things are different. Thanks to the help of our local medical clinic I have reached a state of emotional stability which I never thought possible; and thanks to Chris’s generosity and friendship I find myself more than willing to face the inevitable tension that arises when people are giving up old habits and striving to reach seemingly unattainable goals.

This one I hope is for the long haul. I have wanted to clean Chris’s house for years, ever since she and her husband invited our family over for dinner. The tiny kitchen, with just 2 small counters loaded with cooking utensils and appliances was calling to me, but in those days my son was very young and I was too busy with him to help much with cleanup, which is my favorite way of thanking friends for their hospitality. She sometimes talked about the possibility of hiring me and though I gushed about how much I would love to clean her house, I never believed it would actually happen. It was hard to imagine one of my friends being able to afford a house cleaner. I did hope that one day I could get some time in her kitchen to work a little magic.

That opportunity came when she invited us to their family condo at the beach. She brought her two children and picked up my son and I in the van on the way out of town. It was the first time Dana had a chance to swim in the ocean. We took turns cooking and drank wine and looked at the moon over the surf and talked about our husbands after the kids were asleep. We talked on the beach while the kids played in the water, and I had the luxury of going for a long walk while she watched my son swim in the surf with her two children. It was an extended weekend of relaxation; then came the time for cleanup. Chris says she first knew she wanted me to come clean for her when I pulled out the refrigerator and cleaned behind it.

That was several years ago. Meanwhile, there were more trips to the beach, and lots of phone conversations; we even managed a visit or two at each others’ homes and one miraculous rendezvous at our local bar. It wasn’t until I had hit the bottom of a long slide of degenerating health, conveniently coinciding with the economic downturn, that Chris surprised me with the fateful call. It came on the day I had completed the application process for employment as an assistant teacher in our public school system. I was volunteering in my son’s middle school media center (cleaning of course) when she got me on my cell phone. “We’ve got so many bills paid, and so many people are unemployed. I’m working full time, I just feel like I need the help and it’s time to spend money and stimulate the economy.” That’s not exactly what she said, but close enough. She was certainly offering to stimulate my economic stagnation.

“Well, that I guess answers that,” I announced to the media center teachers. “I guess I will continue to clean houses after all.” I had discovered, volunteering in my son’s school, that once inside them institutions aren’t as painful as I had imagined. His school was not so much a bunch of head banging rules as it was a community of supportive, fascinating people dedicated to educating our youth. I found it a pleasure to work with them, and thought maybe it was time to switch careers. That day, as I cleaned tables and chairs, I was debating whether I could survive in a job that required me to wear shoes and show up on time. But Chris’s call changed all that.

Now here we are almost a year later. This week as I look back on the work I did the day I began this essay, I’ve had a nagging feeling that I let her down. I left many things undone to run off and pick up my son from his after school activity. I think of the bathrooms left untouched and the upstairs not vacuumed. It worries me to think I may have disappointed her by choosing to clean out a closet and drawer instead of visible dirt that I could have gone after. There is often tension generated by my uncontrollable urge to go through piles of stuff searching for items that can be discarded; as the stack of papers or basket of items is spread out all over a room, a place has to be found for everything that doesn’t get thrown away. It is not only a knit picking process that is very time consuming, but disturbingly invasive as personal chaos is deconstructed and laid out like a body on a surgical operating table. Unfortunately this procedure cannot be performed under anesthesia.

Earlier in the day of cleaning Chris had come home from an errand to find I had emptied the contents of a small utility drawer all over the stove and cutting board. I had separated items into several categorized piles; stuff I was sure could go, stuff I suspected could go, and pens, twist ties, screws and hooks, and some small hand tools that could be returned in an orderly arrangement to the drawer, which I was in the middle of washing and drying. “I couldn’t stop myself,” I offered sheepishly as she entered the kitchen. On two occasions she has been forced to ask me not to go through papers, motivated I’m sure by a legitimate fear that something needed in the indeterminate future would be thrown away. She has figured out that in order to get papers graded on the days I clean she has to go the neighborhood coffee house; otherwise I will keep stopping by the computer with bags of stuff for her to make decisions about.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she said with the emphasis on ‘me,’ and sat down at the table to have a short lunch.

“It started when I was looking for twine to tie up that comforter. Oh yeah, I got into a laundry basket in your bedroom too.” I had gone through a whole basket of clothing, separating everything into piles according to whether they were casual or formal work clothes, etc, so that now her bed was covered with what had been in the basket. “It all looked clean to me. I folded the towels and put them away.”

“Yeah, I saw,” she said, and with either heroic self control or genuine lack of concern reached up into a nearby cabinet for a cup. “I think that’s laundry I didn’t get around to putting away.”

Cool, she wasn’t mad, so I was free to dig in. The drawer was a real conquest as I had opened it in search of twine, only to discover a little bottle of coloring liquid that mice had eaten through. There were droppings covering everything. So I felt like I had not only ferreted out one of the places where the mice like to hang out, but Chris was letting me get away with my own little hoe down. Of course there were decisions to be made and unidentifiable items to submit for her review, and since she started chatting amiably I began holding things up for her decree. “Oh, that can go; it’s a piece to an old radio we had before this one.” She was referring to the radio installed under the cabinet beside the stove vent.

We proceeded with gossip and decisions about stuff; soon the drawer was neatly filled and returned to its place, and we were going through a small pile of linens, baby clothes and a bright flower patterned bathing suit from the hall closet. “Oh my God! I forgot all about that! It’s my grandmother’s bathing suit,” she said laughing.

“Dang. I thought it was yours. It’s pretty!”

“Oh I wish you could have seen the night we had a party and Katie put that on over her clothes! It was a riot.”

She was a good friend before, but as we push together through this storm of stuff that has taken over her house, we are drawing even closer. So, ultimately I remember in my inventory of tasks completed and neglected, the loose insulation on the kitchen floor near the dishwasher, and the smell coming from the doors hanging open to the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Chris had gone to the coffee house to grade papers and I was in the race to finish the ‘regular stuff’ in the final hour, on my hands and knees with a bucket of ammonia water cleaning the kitchen floor. More signs of mice! The insulation was lying right next to the rodent traps like a dropped bit of cotton candy, and there was a very suspicious smell…I pulled every thing out from under the sink. That’s where the last hour went! There was a teeny tiny drip coming from the waste water trap, and after lining the cleaned bottom with a paper grocery bag, and placing a plastic container to catch the drip, there was no time to do the bathrooms!

I left all the cleaning chemicals in another utility closet so Chris’s husband would have room under the sink to set new traps. Now I look back on the day and think maybe it wasn’t such a bad one after all. Maybe when I go back there will be a success story about catching a mouse. Then Chris and I will have a nostalgic conversation about our animal loving friend Cheryl, who used only humane traps, and paid for her rescued rat to have cancer surgery. She moved away years ago and only returns for occasional visits. We’ll talk about how much we miss Cheryl and have a good laugh about the rats.

New Clutch

Everything came together just in time today. Rides materialized to get me from the mechanics’ shop to my customer’s house and then back late in the afternoon. I had a chance to speak with people I had met in the past, but with whom I had never had conversations. Though the problem with my car was expensive to fix, thanks to the efficient people at Premium Imports, my worn out old clutch was replaced, a new headlight installed and windshield wipers were changed by the end of the day. I had hoped the gear problem was a matter of topping off some fluid, but it was much more serious than that.

It has been a painful struggle to shift into first gear for the last couple of weeks. My right arm and shoulder were suffering from the battle with the stick shift every day. This morning I could not get the car into reverse. After several tries with that awful screaming of abused metal I jammed it into first and drove through the neighbor’s backyard, carefully rolled over the curb into the street and went straight to the mechanic’s shop. I was careful to park in front of the garage where the car would not likely need to be backed up.

I had communicated by email with the shop co owner the night before and been told they could check out my car today and give me a ride to work. Otherwise I had a trip planner route from the shop to my customer’s house all worked out. My printer is out of ink so I drew the map by hand on the back of an envelope; it was to be a 3.14 mile walk taking approximately 1 hour 15 minutes from departure to arrival. I had gone to the website for our city’s transit system looking for bus routes, but had been given a plan that included a stroll down the northbound side of our beltline; so I was glad to receive the email from Cathy in the morning that said “Come on in. We’ll give you a ride.”

The first technician arrived at 8:00, greeted me politely and opened the front door. He said he would take me to work “as soon as Cathy rolls in.” After turning lights on in the service bays and back office areas and speaking with another early customer, he went out to have a look at my car. By the time he returned Cathy had arrived. He said, “I started it in gear, so I think it’s the clutch.”

At that point I still didn’t realize that a major repair was called for. I thought clutch meant they could put a little fluid somewhere, or maybe bleed the hydraulic lines that powered the clutch. It wasn’t until Cathy called me a few hours later and said, “It is the clutch,” and the line fell silent that I finally asked how much it would cost. I could hear her tapping away at the little adding machine “$935.00.”

“Oh, that’s why we’re talking. Wow.” I was in shock. Time to dump this car I thought. I said so, “So wow, I guess maybe it’s time to talk about whether or not I should stay with this car.”

"Well, I don't know. Where can you find another car for $950?” she said. “I mean, you know the car.”

She was right, “I love that car! Ok, I’ll take my chances that it won’t need another big repair.” She explained that the clutch was an older type which is cable operated as opposed to the newer hydraulic that I had in mind, and said the repair would take all day because they had to remove the transmission to get at it. That changed my plans for cleaning a second house in the afternoon; this trip to the shop would not be a quickie for my little Honda.

I called my afternoon customer and told them I can’t come today; maybe tomorrow, and settled in for a good thorough cleaning of the dog hair on my morning customer’s red sectional sofa.

What a relief, I don’t have to go out and look for another car. Thank goodness for angel mechanics and credit cards.

Self Employed Housecleaner

That’s the phrase I write on the employment line of forms. In the last year I have filled out many of them to apply for jobs or free medical assistance; then there are always my son’s school forms or the yearly forms to keep him enrolled in state funded health insurance. On tax forms where you have to pick from a list of options I finally settled on the category ‘janitorial services’ though I don’t feel that describes my business. I have called myself 'the maid,' or since I’m rarely on time and have a reputation for free living, 'the delinquent maid.' I’ve been called an angel and 'the white tornado.'

I think of myself as a housecleaner, but when it comes to my job what I really think about is my customers and how happy they make me feel about my work. I never leave a house without being thanked unless of course no one is home, in which case I have the pleasure of looking back, as I gather my things, on the spotless floors and counters, freshly vacuumed carpets and winking dust free furniture.

New customers are fun because I have a chance to transform a home from the baseboards to the trim over doors and windows. Each time I return to a house I can enjoy the progress I made on the previous visit. Usually I am able to finish at least one room in several hours of vacuuming, scrubbing, moving furniture or appliances to go after the dirt trying to hide from my determined fingers. I know in the end I will win, it is just a matter of time and effort. Each little task; the window ledges laden with black or yellow powder, sprinkled with bugs or leaves, the storm windows that must be removed to reach the outer panes of the inside windows, the screen with cobwebs fanning out from an upper corner, the trim, the walls, the baseboards, the floors under the rug, behind the sofa …dirt is everywhere and I am right behind it.

Why Astrology

Mansions of the Gods

We go to an astrologer to be lifted up to the sky and see our mundane lives from the whirling, wheeling interweaving stars. Astrologers keep up with poetic time; the time of seasons and light following, piercing darkness; moving, changing, growing, waning and disappearing for hours or days at a time. They speak the language of natural time and life cycles; plants, animals and the love uniting all things; all one life. They talk of chances flowing upon chances like a river of opportunity floating past, ready to take us away.

Astrology is a mythology of the known universe, a glamorous, glittering cloak enfolding all. Twinkles, pins and shimmering Death Valley heat; it’s all there. The sand, water, cactus, birds, insects; every imaginable life form an entity: all one. Existence, one place one moment at a time.

This Little Light

Shine on. Shine on day or night; seen, or unseen. How can we not; carrying that spark, guarding that flame; want to picture that one life, imagine the unimaginable, remember all; any touch, person, word, moment emanating from nothing into being?

Humble

No one need remove anyone’s beating heart to prove how important the sun is, how from it we depend as puppets on strings or planets in tangential arcs; just open our arms wide, lift up our heads, and soak it in; face it and feel the light.

Shining in the Night

What we build is maybe a quiet place to bring that light in from the wind and rain; to keep it burning in a place that’s more comfortable, less worrisome; the mind, where we bring the light in, shine it against rock and see stories like shadows cast by a fire in the cave. We don’t really know who said that first, or even if it was written before Plato. There’s always the possibility of another page emerging from clay and dust, a new spark ignited from the past.

Under the Sheltering Sky*

We cling to that possibility as if we were shipwrecked survivors at sea or trapped on an island. We look for ecstasy in the night because it is there we feel enclosed by one great mind; the sheltering sky. There we can see into the real distance while our vision is compromised such that traveling an unknown road would be difficult and dangerous. We are stopped at that curtain of darkness as if by a magic force-field that advances, overtakes and then recedes from us.

Astrologers take us into the night, where we see many stars and court the moon like a queen in whose glory we all delight. She shines on all, rich and poor, blind, deaf, sick and dying. They take us out into the night and call our attention to the way she is shining; what shape she is in, whether she will be visible tonight. With astrologers we follow the moon through the sky as if she were a camel crossing the desert; reminded that Egypt, Palestine, the frogs croaking in Europe and America all look up to her. Water goes to her as growing leaves reach for the sun.

Movie Magic

So we go to astrologers in the same way we enter a theater in anticipation of some cinematic thrill. We don’t want to be told how the movie will end; we want to experience the images, the music and voices for ourselves. If the movie is a success, we leave with powerful images having entered our minds. These images will provoke new streams of thought like fresh mountain springs discovered along wooded trails. No future is predicted, but possibilities have been thoughtfully, artfully explored. We feel refreshed and alive with new ideas.

Finally, we go to astrologers for comfort. They show us specifically that all things pass. When we are anxious or depressed about a situation we feel unable to control, they demonstrate how things are always changing, and unseen possibilities are always around the corner. Astrologers help us recognize and identify conflicting feelings, because astrology is a language designed to explore the many contradictions that exist within every human mind. We learn through this poetic system of time and space, how we are truly one with the universe; that we are each literally a moment of love incarnated and borne on the vast river of time.

*The Sheltering Sky – a novel by Paul Bowles