Red Rags
The house I grew up in was always stocked with red rags. We had them in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, the corner of the laundry room, the bathroom floor next to the plunger (just in case). But we didn’t only keep them there. The ever-absorbent automotive staples were also stacked knee high in tenuous towers on the floor of my dad’s painting shed. A sack stuffed full of them rode around with us behind the bench seat of his Ford Ranger, a few bumped along in the trough of his golf cart, and one was often hanging halfway out of the back pocket of his jeans. Before the days of disposable everything, these industrial towels were our clean-up go-tos. We never knew when we would need one, but a red rag was within reach in case we did.
Drying the Rags by Daniel Kulinski (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)
And like the Energizer Bunny, they lived on and on and on.
I never knew where or how we got these save-the-days, but they seemed to procreate. As a result, I rarely had to look for one. They were typically just there. Ready, willing and able, they could take care of most any mess we might make. And they were almost impossible to destroy. Resistant to rips and tears, red rags were designed for heavy usage. High-intensity burly jobs that required scrubbing and wringing were their forte. The tougher the task, the better they performed. And like fine wine, they tended to improve with time.
Red rags also rarely encountered a substance they couldn’t absorb. Water, paint, grease, oil--they could soak up most anything, though I always wondered where they put it. The thirsty cloths were deceiving because they were so thin, and even when removing liquid, they never expanded like a sponge. They just cleaned up sludge and scum and took it with them, functioning as erasers, leaving little residue behind.
Last week, I stumbled upon a bucket of these bad boys in the corner of our shed while looking for an extra space heater to ward off freezing pipes. Tucked underneath the zip sled the kids used to ride at the lake, they sat jumbled (not neatly stacked like dad’s) proudly brandishing their scars and stains.
Their unassuming necessity struck me.
Like a Marvel comic hero, they just hang out until they’re needed, then they’re there. The mighty mouse who shows up to save the day!
I have friends like that.
And I’ve had more than a point guard or two.
People who just clean up whatever spills. Quickly, expertly, thoroughly. They swoop in, make the mess disappear, and then leave everything affected good as new.
I don’t know what I’d do without them.