The Trash Heap of History

Remember the other day, when I mentioned that nuns used to have three habits in the closet? The Sunday Best, the Pew Duster, and the Everyday? Be happy for me! Over the years I've collected a few Pew Dusters. I have more than my share. It must have been a plan from heaven for this day.

I've been gone from our house for six weeks. While I was away, Sister St. Aloysius informed me that she was busy cleaning, throwing away piles of papers and junk that had collected. I was happy to hear it. I know, for example, that we have one whole cabinet full of gallon size almost empty paint cans, the idea being that we would always have the matching color for touch ups. We need to do a lot of touch ups because of Sister Mary Fiacre's wheelchair dinging the walls. (Somehow, we never get around to doing it, so there the paint cans remain.) Everyone always tries so hard to be careful pushing her around our tiny house. But the truth is, when you are standing at the back of the chair to push it, it's very difficult to see anything but Sister Mary Fiacre. She rather obliterates one's view of the floor, or the chair bottom's proximity to the walls.

While I was away, I was heartened to hear about Sister St. Aloysius' cleaning efforts.

I don't know what went wrong. So very, very wrong.

Here's my theory: In her zeal to throw things away, she spent all of her time loading the dumpster. She may have had to load up Sister Mary Fiacre in her wheelchair, pile junk on top of her, and wheel the whole mess down the block in the dead of night, to take advantage of the giant dumpsters parked outside of the McMansions under construction.

She may had had to avoid our own trash cans because of the cloud of bees around them, now that the bees have taken over the worm farm. The worm farm was next to the trash cans and the compost bin.

At any rate, it was obvious to me when I re-entered the house that no cleaning of any kind, other than trash removal, had taken place. It was difficult to tell Teddy from the floor, awash in a sea of his own cat hair. Our terrible plumbing has left the two sinks and the bathtub kind of gooey. There is a layer of dust over every object. The spiders are in spider heaven, undisturbed in every corner of every ceiling.

All of the indoor plants are dead. The outdoor garden, although thriving, has returned to it's overgrown state. The morning glories look like a plant alien from space about to devour the rest of the house.

Sister Mary Fiacre's cap was askew. When I put her to bed I found a Moon Pie, out of it's wrapper, underneath her.

The stove is clean. How did that happen? The refrigerator has food in it that was there when I left. A whole pineapple, as shriveled as the house plants, for example.

I don't know where to start. I can't even unpack. My Sunday Best and my Everyday will touch the air here and be reduced to Pew Dusters.

It's good to be needed. And it's good to have extra Pew Dusters.