A macabre ballet

I walked into Oliver's room to place some clean laundry on his bed and then looked over at the fish tank. The newest Lightning Strike arced to the gravelly bed without ability or will to stop his fall. He'd happened into the filter's outflow and was pushed down forcefully, bouncing onto and off of the bridge before coming to rest on the bottom. 

My heart clenched at the sight of his pending death. Guppy2 was frantically swimming around Lightning Strike, under and over, trying to prop him up, urge him to live. It was a beautiful display of concern really, and I don't think I'm anthropomorphizing. They danced, life and death entwined, and I sat there sadly rapt.

Darth Fishious and the neon tetra whose name no one can remember hid, one behind the thermometer and the other in the cave. Perhaps it was all too much to bear. Perhaps they know that Guppy2 and LS2 are buddies and wanted to give them space.

The phone rang, and I tore myself away, breathing deeply to center myself before the scheduled call. Afterwards, I returned to Ol's room and saw LS2 nestled in the heart of a plant; the filter must have directed him there when he last happened into its stream. He looked peaceful, gills moving but almost imperceptibly. A fun fluttered and then rested on his body. Gupp2 prodded LS2 with his snout as if begging him to wake. LS2 rallied, but I know the end is coming soon.

We have what seems to be a statistically improbable mortality rate in that tank. I'm going to get the water tested and the plant leaves assessed for I see a grim black fur starting to grow on them. In the meantime, I'm really very touched by the apparent bond between Gup2 and LS2.

All the things we don't know, we might start to understand as we watch a sad ballet. 

A walk's findings

I love this ancient hydrant and its many layers of paint and patina.

On cleaning the kitchen

The older I get, the more attached to value-sized jugs of white vinegar, my vacuum cleaner and torn pieces of Tom's old tees I feel. I love multi- and repurposed items, and vinegar and worn shirts are surely some of the least expensive powerhouses out there. When I find it hard to settle, which is fairly often, I clean. 

There's never a lack of cleaning to be done in a home with children whose first instinct is not to tidy up, a husband I've nicknamed the "Grand Relocator," and pets who collectively shed enough each day that a large area rug can be woven. 

When everyone is packed up, dropped off and kissed goodbye, and I finally shut the door to a quiet home, I assess what I hope to accomplish as well as the state of my carpets, counters and kitchen. 

The kitchen is my favorite room to master because it is my domain more so than any other except, perhaps, the garden. I like to return it to a blank slate before embarking on any new recipe: shiny counters, a mopped floor, a gleaming sink, a loaded dishwasher, an open range. In concert, the clean and unfettered expanse seems to make more possible a spectacular culinary outcome. 

Armed with nothing more than a spray bottle and various brushes, towels and detail implements like old toothbrushes and toothpicks, I indulge my type-A desires and quiet my mind.

Do you have any idea how revolting the rubber insert for your garbage disposal is? It drips with foul-smelling beige slime! Use a toothbrush to scrub the steel round in which it sits while you let the rubber soak in a vinegar-water mix. Throw a lemon half and some ice cubes into the disposal and process for good measure. This will make things smell nice and keep the disposal's blades clean and sharp.

Have you ever used a toothpick to detail the small spaces between your stove and counter? In and around the displays on your oven and dishwasher? Around the vents in the hood above your range? You'll be amazed at the wiry looking squiggles of grease and grime that come up easily under the assertive poke of a toothpick point. 

I like to look across my floor, as if I might be getting just the angle to skip rocks across a glassy lake, and see the sticky spots from whatever has been dropped or flung or dribbled down chins during the prior days. A quick once-over with my mop, and things look as new.

Tumbleweeds of pet hair and dust come up agreeably with my vacuum; finally I have one with great suction. The counters gleam as new with a strong-armed wipe. And when I'm finally done, have tossed the shirt-rags into the basement, have put away the sponges and cleaner, my mind is calm, my body is peaceful, and my kitchen is ready to be dirtied again.