Saturday, March 29, 2012

A lifetime ago, I was a housecleaner.   For twelve years, I worked for high-end clientele whose houses I kept sparkling.  My clients were demanding, and I enjoyed that—the challenge of rising to their expectations.  I was never fired by any of them.  Each was appreciative of my immaculate nature, attention to the minutest detail, ability to be discrete when necessary and my unyielding honesty as well as trustworthiness.

One of the things I thoroughly enjoyed was polishing their silver, copper or brass.  The latter two were especially fun, for doing so released a scent that I adored.  There’s something about the smell of copper and brass that I find intoxicating—always have.  And silver…to this day, I adore polishing silver.  Don’t get the occasion much any more, but when I do….

Earlier today, I lovingly polished, back to their original luster, matching pieces of my great-grandmother’s.  When I polish, I never wear gloves, instead preferring to feel the gooey polish squish between my fingers as I rub away.  I adore watching what was tarnished give way to a brilliant shine with a little elbow grease.  While polishing, I find myself wondering over the history of the pieces I’m working on.  Doing so brings a smile to my face, imagining how the pieces might have served my ancestors.  How, in turn, they served the items by maintaining them.  How I, a person who believes in honoring the past, take solace in working them back to their original luster. 

Will they tarnish again?  Of course!  Does that bother me?  No.  Why?  Because then I’ll get to once again slip into a happy trance as my hands do what they done hundreds of times in the past—polish away.  It never takes long to make pieces gleam, and during the process, I’m deeply rewarded with the most serene feeling.  Some would call it a chore.  Me…I think of it as a privilege to be able to honor the past in such a personal manner.