Why you need to clean

It was the first rest I'd gotten in 24 hours, so I lay crumpled on the roots of a tree. They came in quietly. Soft steps, soft but clear voices, soft jokes, moving like one body.

A light infantry team.

There was a guy who looked like a Dollar Store Ryan Reynolds. He cleared a spot of sticks and rocks. Distributed tufts of grass to make little beds.

They greeted me, just as softly, asked me to keep an eye out, and just like that, they were asleep.

Just like that, they made that spot their own.

Touching those sticks and stone, they moved them. Cleaned the area. Got to know it.

Took it.

I've always found it difficult to clean by sight alone. There's something about touch that lends itself better to cleaning.

You might not see the dried food on your plate, and your machine certainly won't, but your fingers will feel it.

Many of you are reading Maintenance: Of Everything. A fitting gift for descendants.

I remember the obsession with which the adult men in my childhood took things apart and cleaned them, only to put them back together again.

They may have owned those things, but their wives owned the homes.

There, revealed, is the first step to maintenance: cleaning.

"What's the big deal," I remember thinking.

Why do I need to clean my room. Make my bed. Clean my bicycle. My sandals. My boots.

Well, those last two became obvious on muddy days. I wouldn't walk as easily with all that mud.

The rest became obvious in emergencies, and when we had to move fast.

The act of cleaning is the act of touching your environment. Your environment is much of your memory.

In cleaning, you get to know your stuff. Where it is, and how it fits.

And how it might fit better.

So that when you finally have a bad day, you can move fast.

Your hands, your feet, will know where everything is.

No matter how many people are screaming, how much smoke is in your eyes, and how much blood is on your hands.

If you can’t clean it, you can’t maintain it.

If you can’t maintain it, you don’t own it.