I am stunned and amazed at spic and span homes. My house is coated in fur and dirt. The kitchen floor is a DMZ of coffee grounds, little spills and ever present dog-hair-bunnies. The dust on my desk is thick enough to draw in. There are cobwebs in the corners. I try to keep the darkest of the dinginess out of the shower, but I’m in that wet cubicle without my glasses, so mucky corners blur out. The yard fares no better. It’s overgrown and dense.
I’m at peace with it but I do think twice about inviting the owner of a squeaky clean house over for a visit.
I’ve been in homes that require a trail map. I don’t want to sit down, which is really a moot point because there is no place to sit. Try as I might to focus on the person, it’s hard to get the clutter out of my peripheral vision. I’m sure my house is like that for some people.
Tidier and cleaner than some. Filthier than others.
And yet, “Our House” (the one by Crosby, Stills, etc.) keeps tuning through my head. It’s a happy song and I feel it. This IS my house. I was part of the duo that picked it. Me. I get to live here because I want to. No-one but the bank can kick me out.
I moved a lot when I was little. If we stayed in one place for a year, it was a miracle. I’m a classic case of displaced kid who clings fiercely to home now. I have one. Man, that’s amazing. It’s a gift not to be taken for granted.
Not that I’m going to clean more… But I might place some flowers in that vase…. And invite you over….
Susan Scot Fry
Update… We indulged in a bit of yard love today. I got to indulge in one of my favorite things ever. Are you old enough to remember The Big Chill? The scene in the kitchen where they’re cooking dinner. I love that scene. It’s friends and wine and food. Eating is almost a denoument. Almost.