Silence: The absence of clutter

Looking around the house in Hilo, I realize I've been raised in chaos. Sure, we had chores. Each month one of us would have to do the dishes while the other had to clear and wipe the table. But that's about it. There were some threats about cleaning the bathroom and mopping the floor but it was never enforced on a consistent basis.

Both my parents worked. They came home tired. My brother and I were lazy, typical teenagers with that infuriating don't-tell-me-what-to-do-I-already-know-everything attitude. At some point, I think, my parents got tired of pushing us.

Our house at best was disorganized and at worst a sty.

I remember frantic last-minute cleaning efforts before family get-togethers.

No one has ever done anything about our yard, which remains a tangled jungle of weeds as tall as small trees.

No, I take that back. Someone did do something about it. Our neighbor, Mr. D cut down a huge chunk of weeds when they began creeping into his yard. He even planted grass. And has taken to mowing it. It's an unspoken truth that he planted and continues to maintain the strip of grass that is technically on our property.

I say all this because my dad was raised by my grandma, a compulsive cleaner and possibly the tidiest person on the planet. I was just at her house, washing my hands at her bathroom sink, taking it all in, thinking, My God, this house is so clean. This house is a testament to Grandma.

I have a sneaking suspiscion that the mess really, really bothers my dad but he doesn't feel that it's his responsibility to do anything about it. That the rest of us should take up the project. I also suspect he's wary of criticizing us for fear of retorts that will lead to arguments and lost tempers.

Instead, he's eeked out his own corner of calm organization. A desk, clear of clutter, with papers filed neatly in drawers and cubby holes. A cordless phone and a lap top computer. Every day, my mom's sewing supplies or piles of junk mail come precariously close to swallowing up this one small corner, the only corner he's taken to cultivating.

Maybe he's hoping, through his silence, and the silent presence of his tidy corner amongst all the visual noise, we will find the way and follow his lead. And he will be able to finally put his feet up on a table free of clutter and gloat. Silently of course.