A Walker in the Suburbs

Am I the last of a dying breed? Not just a dying breed, but a unique breed — perhaps one of the only generations that must manage both digital and actual files? I’ve spent part of an evening pulling photographs off an old computer that is less-than-accessible due to charging issues, and as I’ve been doing so, I’ve wondered, do we have any parallels in history?

Were there once people who had to contend with both stone tablets and papyrus? With the scroll and the codex?

As the pace of change increases, the pace of managing that change falls on the shoulders of those who not only have a crammed-full hard disk but also scores of musty, sagging boxes in the basement.

Where to start? How to proceed? One must be ruthless on both scores, I suppose, must pitch the papers and books — plus ancient computer files, too. Yesterday was a good day for that, with a sheaf of papers recycled at the office, and desktop computer files trashed at home. It’s a bit like bailing out the ocean with a thimble — but it’s a start.

(How many of these need to go? Quite a few!)

I knew I’d gotten serious about cleaning when I found myself scrubbing the washing machine, wiping off the soap residue, concentrating on a few dark streets I found on the front of the machine that finally went away with enough time and elbow grease.

The immediate excuse was my brother Drew’s visit, but it was more than that. It was as if a switch were triggered and the smudges I usually don’t see were decked out in crazy neon colors, begging to be obliterated.

So on top of the usual routine — the dusting and vacuuming and scouring — there was using the vacuum attachment to siphon out crevices in the basement, squeegeeing the front and back doors, washing the parakeets’ cage cover … and much, much more.

It’s all a matter of seeing. Usually, I absolve the clutter, move past what I know I can’t remedy because there’s only enough time for the basics in my life and cleaning isn’t one of them.

But this weekend I allowed myself time to dust and vacuum and sweep and scour, granted myself permission to use more hours than usual for those purposes. It’s always comforting to accomplish much with little mental effort, to complete tasks always looming.

And now, I harvest the result: an almost spartanly clean house. Key word “almost” … of course.

Every so often comes a cleaning chore that makes us bare our souls, that drives us into the hidden places where we’ve stuffed photographs and papers and maps, and makes us pull them out. Every so often a cleaning chore comes that makes us ashamed of ourselves.

For me, that one comes today, when the Stainless technicians come to shampoo the carpet.

I am, first of all, ashamed that the carpet is in such bad shape. Copper has grown more anxious as he’s gotten older and has developed the habit of scratching rugs when he’s upset. His bladder control ain’t what it used to be either.

And then there’s all the stuff I’ve been storing on the floor in the bedrooms. This is how I’ve absorbed the papers and photographs from Mom and Dad’s house —by transferring them directly from underneath their beds to underneath mine.

I marvel at how much I can cram into corners and closets — and how easily it slips out of awareness when not in my direct line of vision. But today it’s right there, difficult to ignore.

So Stainless Carpet Cleaners will come, and Stainless will clean and Stainless will leave. But the stuff will remain. And dealing with the stuff…  is up to me.

Last weekend’s getaway not only involved a garret room, but it also brought me face-to-face with the practice of staging. Not the kind they do on Broadway … but the kind they do in competitive real estate markets.