Organization

Dad was always the organized one.  He had a place for everything and everything in his home had a place.  He carefully wiped the spots out of sinks when he was done with them-- all sinks, it mattered not what they were made of.  I always knew where to find something.  Things went in logical places, in the rooms that they were being used in.  Everything in Dad's home was clean, neat, and kept up.  Cared for.  Once after Dad had brought home a bunny and then rehomed it, he replaced the carpeting.  All of the carpeting.  Because in playing with the small dog, the bunny had pooed randomly as bunnies will.  But since the poo left tiny little stains to Dad's eyes, the carpet went and new carpet was brought in.  Dad had a housekeeper who came in twice a week to dust and vacuum.  I remember her.  She was an old lady, easily eighty years old or so, but cheerful.  I am not sure if she was a thorough housekeeper.  She did tilt the pictures hanging in the living room over the stereo to show that she had indeed dusted them.

And now we both struggle with organization.  I always had, although my brain damage subsequently made my disorganization much worse.  And Dad because of his dementia.  He spends a lot of time, an hour or two daily, fixing and straightening and organizing his stuff.  "I'm getting a new system," he tells me in all seriously as he moves the clothing around in his dresser or lines up the items he needs for his nail care on top of it.  Dad insists upon putting his own clothing away after they are laundered.  He has consented to allow the housekeeper to make his bed daily and to vacuum his carpet twice a week.

sapphoq on life