I have a wide, white squeegee* in my shower. Occasionally, although not often enough for me to avoid feeling guilty, I will remember to use this squeegee to get the water off of my shower tiles after bathing. I suppose that this is intended to keep the shower clean and mildew free, but that isn’t really why I have the squeegee at all.
My grandfather had a similar squeegee in his shower when I was a kid. The shower was small, but had large mint green tiles. Nothing else matched that color in the bathroom. I always wondered if he had the shower done all in green as some secret surprise in an otherwise bland earth-toned bathroom. People would use the restroom and never know the wonderful secret that lurked hidden behind that frosted glass door. But I suppose in reality, the shower had always been that color and was just not updated some time before my birth when the bathroom had been remodeled.
I remember when I was a child, old enough to not only take baths but still young enough to be instructed on shower basics, my Granddad told me the importance of the squeegee, and showed me how to use it. He used meticulously placed downward strokes, with even pressure through the whole motion with the care that my grandfather used in almost everything he did. It made that beautiful shhthwhack sound that every squeegee makes. It is a pleasing sound, maybe just to me, but I suspect everyone likes it.
That is why I always have had one in my shower, I suppose. All because my little brain tape recorder was fed the instruction that after a shower the tile must be dried, and that every shower must contain a squeegee. When I am in a hotel I often feel a little bit robbed when I don’t see one in the shower. I don’t know why. It is obviously the maid’s job to clean it, and that is far more often than anyone’s home shower would get any such attention at all.
I got to thinking about this kind of thing recently while visiting a really odd church on some anonymous Sunday morning. Some of the people were friendly enough, but the service had a lot of weird things that nobody explained. They weren’t weird in a cultish way, but in some cultural expressions that they didn’t bother explaining. It was like celebrating Christmas with a family other than your own, and at dinner they serve Hot Pockets. Even though it seems really odd, but you feel too shy to ask.
Anyway, during the church service I saw a mid-twenties aged man in the front row. He had one son with him, probably about 5 years old. The man got down on his knees in worship and his son knelt quickly down next to him. The man raised one hand in worship then two, and the son followed suit each time. The child kept his head pointed toward his dad the whole time so that he wouldn’t miss even some small motion.
He was learning how to worship, and some day 30 years from now, he’ll be in the front row of the church on his knees and he won’t know why, other than that this is the best way to worship God. It will be stuck in his little recorder, part of his functional DNA, and he also won’t understand why some other dude only worships in the back bobbing his head.
There is this bird in Australia called the Lyrebird. It is different than the birds that congregate outside my window and wake me up in the morning. Each spring morning I hear the chip-chirp-cheeee of the Warblers repeatedly until I either submit to the headache or wake up and shower. But that is the only song that they know. They do it repeatedly throughout their lives. They are programmed to sing that.
But the Lyrebird doesn’t do things that way. He takes the sounds of other birds in his forest and repeats them, weaving them all into his own little song. He mimics them perfectly. If he hears a chain saw or a camera, he does those sounds too. You’d swear it was the real thing. All these sounds put together into a song. It is the life of the forest in one medley-remix. The camera and chainsaw aren’t that melodious by themselves, but the Lyrebird makes it melodious.
I hope I’m kind of like that Lyrebird. When I swim I think about the time as a child that my dad explained to me how sound travels faster in water than in air. When I cook I repeat actions I learned long ago from my mom and grandma. And there is a squeegee in my shower. I want to believe it is my beautiful song with my own spin on the melody. I don’t want to be just a Warbler, repeating the same thing endlessly. I think we are pretty inventive as people, but in a beautiful way, we’re often just repeating the forest sounds of our youth. -Ryan