The wreath I need to drop off at the Salvation Army sits in the hall, where it’s been for the past two days.It’s perfectly good, but it’s too big for our door since its twigs and leaves whap you in the face each time you try to enter past it. Its continued residence in our front hall set me to thinking again about Covid’s influence on our lives.
I’ve decided all this time indoors and no visitors has winnowed many of us down to who we really are as housekeepers. Yes, my bathrooms get cleaned, but the newspapers tend to pile up on the coffee table now that there’s no chance anyone can drop by.
I make the bed every morning, but that’s for me, because an unmade bed drives me nuts, but the clean laundry can hang out on top of the washer all day because I don’t see it.
Since Mamie is shaking-in-her-boots terrified of the vacuum, it only appears when the floor grit becomes unbearable, but my kitchen counters are always clean and clear because I can’t think, never mind cook, in a messy kitchen. And not being able to cook is unthinkable.
This morning I realized my priorities were already pretty much jelled by the time I was in my first year of college.
I can recall making applesauce on our dorm’s little two-burner stove. (Where did the apples come from? The college dining hall?) However, my sheets rarely got changed by the next turn of the moon.