A Little Dirt

Photo Credit: Judey Kalchik

Every week, I've wanted to ask about the boots, but every week I chickened out.

I clean houses. Mr. Peterson hired me a few months ago, after his wife moved into assisted living. He's pretty able-bodied for his age, but his wife insisted he bring someone in to do part of the housework. Mr. Peterson told me she doesn't want him to wear himself out. Experience tells me she doesn't want him to get too lonely.

Usually my clients are either entirely hands-off and let me do my thing, or they follow me from room to room directing or trying to help. Mr. Peterson has one foot in each camp. He's not rude to me, but he doesn't engage with me. I get it -- it's uncomfortable to have a stranger come into your home and touch all your stuff. So, he keeps his distance... until he doesn't.

After an hour or so of working without interruption, I'll feel eyes on me. I try to smile when I turn to look. He'll be standing in a doorway craning his neck to check my progress. I'll explain what I've been working on or what I'm going to start next, and I'll ask if there's anything else he'd like me to do. Mr. Peterson doesn't answer unless it's to say I missed a spot. I don't take it personally.

That's why I was so startled when Mr. Peterson rushed across the dining room to stop me from touching the boots. He practically scolded me, as if I should have known better. Even so, he didn't explain why he kept a worn pair of work boots in the corner of the room, sitting on a small, dirt-caked rug which begged to be vacuumed. I can't imagine what harm there could be in taking the boots outdoors to smack loose the dried mud. On the other hand, a pair of dirty boots in an otherwise tidy house isn't going to hurt anyone. If he says to leave them alone, I'll leave them alone.

But why, though? During my cleaning sessions, I've daydreamed a few possible explanations. What if the boots represent the last time Mr. Peterson did yard work? My cleaning would sweep away the evidence that he was at one time more able than he is now. Or maybe the boots aren't his at all. They might have belonged to a brother or a son who's no longer around. That would make the boots a shrine, and the dirt adjacent to sacred ground. Maybe the boots are waiting for someone to come back to them.

Week after week, I've spun new narratives in my head. I've never worked up the courage to ask Mr. Peterson for the true story. I want to avoid opening old wounds, and besides, it's none of my business.

Today, though, I got to see the answer with my own eyes.

As I was finishing the dishes the front door swung open. Soon after, I heard the stomping of small shoes against the tile floor of the dining room. A preschool-aged boy with curly brown hair flapped his arms as he ran a lap or two around the table.

A very tired young woman joined me in the kitchen and leaned heavily on the counter.

"I didn't know he had a housekeeper."

"His wife's idea. And you're...?"

"The granddaughter. And that's my son, Avery."

Mr. Peterson made his way to Avery and helped the boy take off his shoes. With a loud grunt, the great-grandfather hoisted the child up and carefully placed him into the work boots. Avery resumed his stomping, using all of his leg-power to maneuver the adult-sized boots. Mr. Peterson kept ahold of his hands.

Avery's mother smiled. "I have no idea what he thinks he's doing, but it sure is cute. It's always the first thing he wants to do when we come over."

I nodded as the puzzle pieces came together. "Yeah, I was wondering about those."

"You should've seen Avery the time we got here and the boots were put away." She rolled her eyes and chuckled. "My ears are still ringing."

I picked up another plate from the sink and thought about all the silly, dramatic ideas I'd had about the boots.

"Oh," she continued, "I'm sorry, they're tracking dirt everywhere..." She must have seen my nostrils flare.

"Oh no, don't worry about it," I reassured her. "I mean it. No need to overthink a little dirt."