Bathrooms, Backrubs, and Best Friends

Once a week at our house, my job is to clean the bathroom. Twenty-five years ago, when I first took the job, my wife, Roe, was disappointed to see that my idea of a clean bathroom amounted to folded towels and a new bar in the soap dish.

But today I am an expert bathroom cleaner with a system: start at the tiles with powdered cleanser and sponge, then rinse. Move to tub with powdered soap; scrub and rinse. Toilet bowl: powder soap, sponge, flush. Bathroom floor: mild cleaning fluid, rinse. Sink . . . soap dish . . . mirror. Done.

Sometimes when I have finished cleaning, I sit on the bathroom floor and admire the white tub or the shine in the chrome fixtures. I adjust towels, place new soap in the dish. I straighten the flower print that Roe framed. She likes order. I would be happy with a leaning outhouse, but it delights me to make a bit of the world sparkle, knowing that it will delight my wife.

I often give Roe long back rubs before she sleeps. I like holding her hand when we step out of the car and head for the supermarket. I like to write her notes with smiley faces and tape them to her mirror while she is showering in her clean bathroom.

Forty years ago I saw my grandfather help my grandmother up the front steps and into the house at the close of a summer afternoon of sitting on lawn chairs. I remember my father’s delight with the pictures he took of my mother. He framed one of her standing at the top of the stairs beside a Japanese print of a beautiful geisha girl.

My best friend died last month. Every day for years he emailed me words of encouragement, kindness, and advice. For 18 years he telephoned me every last Saturday of the month. When he traveled, he would send his hotel and a phone number ahead of time just in case I needed him. He said to me, "Chris, if you ever need me, no matter where you are, just call and I will come and help you." My best friend happened to be Mr. Rogers, and in 18 years we rarely spoke about his fame or his television career. We spoke about our wives and children. We exchanged Christmas and birthday gifts. We visited each other’s homes. Fred included me in his everyday routines of attention and care.

Our routines can be drudgery or habits of being, ways of tending to the world. And the world consists of those we love. If we tend to those we love, with close attention, well, a wife will smile as she enjoys a back rub. A grandmother will be grateful that she reached the top of the stairs without falling. A man in New Jersey will feel supported and loved from a friend in Pittsburgh.

We can all be good at cleaning bathrooms.

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