The view from here -- a mess

Viewpoint. Viewpoint. Viewpoint. It's a matter of viewpoint. You may not agree, but that's how I see it. My children have a different take on the subject. And my husband -- well, let's not journey to that planet.

Ever notice things appear one way until you travel closer, or look from a different angle? All of a sudden you see completely different object and wonder how you ever perceived otherwise. Viewpoint.

Remember the tale about five blind men 'seeing' an elephant for the first time? Each felt/focused on a particular aspect of the animal -- a leg, a trunk, a tail -- and drew an incomplete conclusion about the entirety from their unique base. Viewpoint.

As a kid, I remember looking forward longingly to the end of school, holidays, or vacation breaks. I greeted these escapes with eager anticipation.

My viewpoint's changed over the years. I've moved to a different angle, or am now examining another aspect than in my younger days. My perspective has matured.

Nowadays I count minutes until vacation is over, break ends, school starts again and the kids head back to class. Viewpoint. Viewpoint. Viewpoint.

I could cloak, or dignify my attitude as a sincere interest in their education, but it would be a flimsy guise. With all there is to be learned outside of classrooms and books, education isn't confined to such lesser structures. Nope. That ain't it.

What distorts my viewpoints most is mess. Looking at the world through three feet of kids-at-home clutter can jaundice my vision.

Around here if you aren't actively waging war on the messiness of living, you've drifted to the dark side and become part of the problem. I feel like an army of one, outnumbered badly and losing ground.

Occasionally I hold recruitment campaigns and gather short-termers to pick up a room, do a sink of dishes, load of laundry, or shovel the kitchen floor. Unfortunately, they have about a 30-minute attention span, maybe less when they're on vacation.

I want a few lifers to sign up. Someone wanting to do more than read or sleep the entire break. Someone interested in finding the table, or the floor, even if only for morbid curiosity. Someone who likes operating a broom.

This is why I'm ecstatic to see school start again. With an empty house I have a fighting chance. If they are gone a few hours, that's a fewer hours they can't mess. What little I've accomplished at least has hope of holding on.

The other day I rushed home from work to catch a bite of lunch. Knowing school was safely in session, I'd left things fairly clean with the expectation it should last through the day.

Muddy footprints went across the porch. A discarded, dirty jacket graced the floor. A trail of hay and grain led to the unflushed toilet. Telephone books lay open by the phone with a scattering of scrawled notes. The computer area was disheveled from a weather check and marathon card game. Some life form had foraged through the refrigerator leftovers, leaving dishes scattered on the counter. The vet box had been overturned while searching for a certain tool. The rag bag suffered a similar assault. Neither had been restored to order.

The large accumulation of mail piled on the table had been plowed through and perused for amusement or out of boredom. The swath of clutter and destruction was complete and spelled Tom.

Among the mailings which covered the table was the latest college catalog. Maybe in the interest of good housekeeping, I should enroll him. Or lock him outside whenever I leave.



Debbie Bixby is a Riddle-area freelance writer