"What

are you doing?"

Delivered

"what" and not on "doing") that is

not merely a casual, solicitous question about a wife's

afternoon.

I heard it

most recently when Dave walked in out of a July steamer,

wanting nothing but a cold beer and the promise of

supper, and found the table set with the ruby-red tea

glasses and my mother's sterling silver.

The kitchen

counters were wall-to-wall with canisters and freshly

washed dishes and saucepans drying inverted on towels.

In

"What are you doing?" I heard, "We're not

having company for dinner with this mess, are we?"

And,

"Why are you washing every dish we own?"

And,

"Does this have anything to do with the bug-bombs we

set off last night?"

The

answers: "No."

"They

needed it."

And,

"Sort of."

I hope

- I pray! - that the growing influx of those

huge bugs I prefer to call palmetto bugs

("roaches" sounds so... dirty) is not a

reflection on my housekeeping skills or lack of. I hope

- I pray! - they and our resident spiders are

simply a natural consequence of living on this woodsy

lot.

Nonetheless,

once or twice each summer they overcome my resolve to

live compatibly with Mother Nature, and drive me to beg

Dave to set off a couple of bug bombs.

The evening

before "What are you doing?" we were going to

be out for a potluck-and-meeting, so we turned off the

air conditioner, locked the cat out of the house, and

released a mist designed to seek and destroy our unwanted

guests.

I had

carried out to the screened porch items like the cutting

board and kitchen utensils I keep in crocks on the

counter. My jars of beans and pastas are well sealed.

But while I

could have protected the dishes and pots and pans from

the spray by keeping cabinet doors closed, that would

have thwarted the spray's effectiveness. Besides, most of

my cabinets are open - doorless - to display

the things I love best, vulnerable to dust, spiders, or a

potentially lethal fog, despite my spreading newspapers

over them.

On our

return, Dave ventilated the house, vacuumed up corpses

and damp-mopped the tile floors, while I removed papers,

laved every kitchen surface with soapy water, and

retrieved the items I'd evacuated earlier.

It wasn't

enough. My mind would not be easy until the plates and

glasses were washed too.

I argued

with myself that they needed it anyhow. For too long I

had felt my hand breaking through cobwebs as I withdrew

seldom-used crockery from the back of a shelf. I can't

even guess how long it's been since those shelves had

been cleaned.

Over 43

years of keeping house, I've gone through dishes like

anyone, but have collected enough everyday pieces to set

about 20 places. And there are at least 30 more mugs and

assorted dessert dishes I've collected simply because I

like them.

(This

doesn't count Mom's china. It does live behind closed

doors, to protect it. But I'll probably wash it too

before I use it again, even though it was covered.)

My pottery

addiction is no secret: I have pitchers and bowls and

plates and sugars and creamers in a dozen shades of blue

and brown. Just ask Wayne Rives, the local potter whose

stuff I buy simply because I love it.

Fortunately,

I have just enough self-control to keep it wrapped up in

the attic for wedding gifts.

The

shelves? I counted: We have 11 standard-sized kitchen

shelves with dishes and glasses on them, plus five more

on a baker's rack, bearing everyday dinner dishes handy

to the table.

All open.

Which is just the point. None are hidden even behind

clear doors. The pleasure I get, the stories I read on

their bright glaze, invoke memories of distant travels

and local arts festivals alike.

So. I

washed. And I wiped. And I put back just as they were

before. And in the process I noted some I simply hadn't

used in awhile.

Thus Dave

found the table set in festive mode that Friday

afternoon, even though the menu was veggie-hot dogs,

leftover tuna-bean salad, and cold rice heated in

bouillon.

Why Mom's

sterling? It was safe from bug spray in its box under the

couch, but it too had not been used in ages. The time was

right to get it out and admire its soft patina.

In fact, it

was in that revery that Dave came in and caught me with

my project unfinished. I'll tell you about the sterling

another day. For now, enough to note that the hot dogs,

soup and salad were delicious, the tastier for being

served on squeaky-clean plates and bowls.

Or maybe it

was because I was so tired and feeling so proud of the

massive job I'd completed that at first I missed the

import of what Dave was saying:

"You

know, it says on the bug can that in case any eggs hatch

out, we should do this again in about two weeks."

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