The Blacksmith's Apprentice, chapter 1

Elwyn's shirt hung down to his knees. The shoulder seams hit at about his elbows and the neck opened up on his breastbone. He kept trying to roll up the sleeves, but his arms were so scrawny that they always came unrolled. His pants were the same size as his shirt and so he had finally been forced to cut them off and hope to get a new pair when he finally grew into them. He wore no shoes. He used a dirty string to keep his hair from getting into his brown eyes--practically the only part of him that actually looked the right size, although that made them unusually large on the skinny face of an underfed twelve-year-old. And, in fact, if you really looked at them, disregarding all other aspects of his appearance, you would have been fooled into thinking he was much older than twelve.

But as he trudged along the dirt highway leading toward the town of Meridor, Elwyn gave no thought to his appearance--clothes, eyes, or otherwise. He was thinking about the home he was leaving, his family, and the new life that awaited him up ahead. As the oldest of six children born to parents stuck in the deepest levels of poverty, Elwyn had always known that he would leave him as soon as he could. His parents did not formally eject him from their home, but when the possibility of an apprenticeship in Meridor was made known to them, he spoke up with a heart already resigned to his fate.

He had no particular dislike for smithery. In fact, he hardly knew what to expect from the trade at all. He hoped to get three meals a day and maybe a new set of clothes in time. He knew enough to keep his head down and not get into trouble. And while poverty had not so depressed him that he had abandoned any dreams for the future, he was realistic enough to know what to expect from life. He knew that fortune had smiled on him in a small way and he accepted his fate with complacency.

For Elwyn was as ordinary as they come. He knew how to do most things boys his age could do. He had the same dreams and desires as most children on the verge of adulthood. And he had enough of a stoic nature to accept life's twists and turns without protest, so long as they were not too harsh in either direction. This small turning point appeared to him as it was: a blank opportunity without prejudice of any kind. So Elwyn neither hurried nor delayed his journey, arriving just as he had expected, about an hour before the sun set and the wooden gates of the city closed to visitors for the night.
* * * * *
It only took three sets of directions from wandering children to help Elwyn find the blacksmith's forge. When he arrived at the open doorway, he stood quietly and still for many minutes, watching the flurry of sparks and the glow of hot metal being passed from fire to anvil and back again. The blacksmith, whose name was Cormoran, was a giant of a man. He worked stripped to the waist, and his torso, reddened by the firelight and heavy with soot and sweat, loomed in front of Elwyn like some vague nightmare from his childhood. Elwyn almost turned unconsciously away, but then Cormoran turned and noticed him.

"What do you need, boy?" he asked distractedly.

"I'm Elwyn, son of James Soleby, come to be apprentice to the blacksmith in Meridor."
Cormoran stopped then, slowly put down his tongues, and held out his hand for Elwyn to shake. It was hot and dry. Elwyn shook it perfunctorily and then Cormoran stepped back and looked him up and down. "Apprentice, eh?"

"Yessir. I'm twelve years old this May and my father says I may learn a trade."

"It's hard work, though. And your father doesn't look as if he's fed you for hard work these past twelve years." Cormoran frowned.

"I'll work, sir, and eat what I'm given," said Elwyn. "My parents are poor and I'm the oldest, but I won't apologize for what I am. Am I to learn or not?"

"I've had plenty of apprentices before," replied Cormoran, "and some as skinny as you. Will you work hard?"

Elwyn nodded.

"Will you do as you're told and trust me?"

Although he wondered what Cormoran could mean, Elwyn nodded again.

"I can make you a blacksmith, Elwyn Soleby, if that's what you want to be, as long as you'll do what I say."

"I will, sir," Elwyn assured him, swallowing hastily. "That I will."

"You'll find my house at the end of the lane," Cormoran instructed him. "Take a bath and change your clothes. Ask my wife for a good meal and eat it quickly. We have half a cord of wood to chop before bed tonight. See how much you can get done before I get home." Then he turned back to his fire.

Elwyn left the shop immediately, happy to get back into the open air. The sun was setting and a pale yellow light spread over the yard in front of the forge. He walked slowly across it, watching its curious effect on his arms and hands, and then sped up to reach the house and the meal he hoped would be better than what he had eaten the last three days of his journey.

When he reached the front door of the house at the end of the lane, he saw that it was already slightly ajar. Knocking a few times on the post, Elwyn called out, "Hello? Mrs. Cormoran?"

"I'm in the kitchen," replied a sweet, young voice. "Come on in.

Elwyn pushed open the door and walked into the house. The front room was furnished with a rocking chair, two hearthrugs, and a wood box for the fireplace. But though the furnishings were sparse, the walls were hung with a series of wrought-iron motifs, each one more intricate than the last, with no apparent purpose other than to be looked at and admired. In one, a stallion rose up against a wall of flood waters that nearly reached its head. In another, a giant fish threaded its way through a mass of coral and seaweed. Each piece was seamless and of excellent craftsmanship. And each looked as clean and polished as the day it had been hung. Elwyn perused the pictures for as long as he dared before making his way toward the doorway that was hung with a drape and blowing slightly in the breeze.

As he pushed aside the drapery, the aromas from the kitchen nearly brought him to his knees. Elwyn may not have known much food in his short lifetime, but he appreciated what he could get and had a fine nose for smelling out good things to eat. The blacksmith's wife was just taking a fresh loaf of bread from the oven. Its scent mingled with the game hen roasting over a spit and the potato, carrot, and onion stew simmering on the stove top. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until now. At that moment, he didn't think he could walk more than five more steps without having something to eat.

Coromoran's wife set the bread on the table and turned to face him, wiping her hands on her apron. She had long, brown hair tied back from her face but coming loose around the edges. Her figure was large but delicate, and she seemed just the right size and shape to match her blacksmith husband. When she smiled at Elwyn and held out her hand, he took it at once, trusting her implicitly, as he had not done with her husband.

"You must be the new apprentice," she said, pulling out a chair for him to sit down at the table. "They all come to us as if they've not eaten more than one meal a day for their whole lives. Well, don't worry. We'll fatten you up here. Now what's your name, son?"

"Elwyn," he replied, trying not to look at the bread and pitcher of milk sitting on the table within arm's reach.

"I'm Cassandra, but everyone calls me Cassie," said the blacksmith's wife. "I imagine Cormoran told you to eat and take a bath. Well, which would you rather do first? You'd probably like to eat, wouldn't you?" She hurried on before Elwyn could interject. "But you'll have to take a bath and change your clothes first." Elwyn looked at her in surprise. "Trust me. This will taste better when you're clean. And the meat's not done anyway." And with that, she poured him a glass of milk and prodded him up off the chair and through another curtain-hung doorway where he found a large tin of warm water and a cake of soup sitting on a brush next to it. "You'll find a towel and clean clothes in the bench there," she said, pointing at a wooden trunk sitting next to the door. "And here," pulling a string out of her pocket, "is a new rope for your hair."

Elwyn took it from her and watched as she turned and left the room. He paused only briefly to check the temperature of the water, then stripped off his clothes and climbed into the tub. The water was warm enough to make him comfortable but not so warm that he wanted to soak in it. He scrubbed his hair and body as well and as quickly as he could, then brushed underneath his fingernails and toenails. When he began to shiver, he climbed out and opened the trunk where he found a large, clean piece of cloth to dry himself. Arranged in the trunk were a new shirt, pants, a belt, and leather moccasins. Elwyn had never worn shoes before, so it took him a little longer to dress than usual but he had soon wadded up his old clothes into a ball and laid the towel out to dry over the lid of the trunk. Then he went back into the kitchen drinking his glass of milk.

"So much better," smiled Cassie when she saw him come in. "And the clothes fit well enough, I should think?"

"Yes ma'am. Thank you," Elwyn replied a little shyly.

"Have a seat and I'll serve your supper. I usually eat with Cormoran when he comes home, but I'm feeling like having something now, so I'll eat with you. That alright?"

Elwyn nodded and sat down at the table. Cassie made him feel almost too happy inside, like something that can't last but ought to be enjoyed more than he could enjoy it. But when she had served him a plate of food, he turned his attention to eating and listening to her as she told him about herself.

"I grew up in the village of Long-au-duc," she explained. "Perhaps you have heard of it? Cormoran said it is not too far from your home." When Elwyn looked up at her and shook his head apologetically, she continued. "Oh well. It was never much in those days and still isn't anything. My father was the town constable and had the occasion to travel every few months to neighboring towns and villages on business. When I was fifteen, he visited Meridor and met Cormoran, who had just turned eighteen and completed his apprenticeship. Cormoran got on well with my father and, over the course of his visit, was talked into coming to Long-au-duc to meet my older sister. When he came, though, my sister had the misfortune to have caught a cold, so it was me who caught Cormoran's eye, instead of my sister. We were married within two months, and he took me back to Meridor to keep his house. It is not often that one so young is able to marry these days, but Cormoran's parents died when he was sixteen, and he already had a house and a forge to his name. We have been here for ten years and he has always done well for us both."

Elwyn looked at her quizzically but did not ask the question on his mind. A woman married for ten years ought to have several children to show for it, but Elwyn saw no evidence of any in the house. As if she had read his mind, Cassie replied, "We have no children. I believe it is because I am barren, but who can say? If God does not wish it, who are we to contradict his will? That is why Cormoran usually keeps an apprentice or two.

Summary for the rest of the novel (to be finished later): Elwyn spends a year or two just running errands for the blacksmith, building up his strength lifting flour sacks at the mill, and eating three square meals a day. Finally, when he is about to resign himself to never actually walking into the forge, he is deemed ready for his training. Then he undergoes extensive training to become a blacksmith. The last item he makes, to complete his training, is a sword for a nobleman who, when he comes to claim it, will not pay the agreed-upon price. Cormoran refuses to give up the sword, duels with the nobleman, and wins. Elwyn realizes that Cormoran can teach him much more than just metalworking. He begs for swordfighting lessons; Cormoran reluctantly agrees, consenting to teach him one pose per day. He shows Elwyn the move or pose only three times. Elwyn makes up a type of shorthand (since he can't read or write) to record what he is learning so that he can practice it. Once Cormoran has shown him everything he knows, Elwyn goes looking for practice. He falls in with a group of young men close to his age who practice swordfighting regularly. At first, he fails miserably. No one wants to spar with him. But then, one of the young men, a skilled swordsman despite his diminuitive stature, agrees to teach Elwyn. After months of training, Elwyn has finally displayed a degree of skill with a sword that he is pleased with. Soon after, war is declared in his country and a notice of military recruitment is posted in the village. Elwyn considers joining the military, but on talking it over with Cormoran, realizes he could rise to a much better position within the military if he knew how to read. He remembers noticing, once, that the young man who taught him to swordfight knew how to read. He sets out to look for the young man. All his searches fail, especially since everyone else in the former group has joined up with the military and left town. Finally, in an unexpected twist, Elwyn walks by the house of the nobleman who originally ordered the sword from Cormoran. He sees a young lady outside who waves at him, then blushes and turns away. When he looks closely, he realizes that she is the young man he searches for. She had dressed up as a man to gain experience. Elwyn convinces her to teach him to read. She agrees and they meet secretly for some months. During this tutelage, Elwyn falls in love with her. He cannot ask her to marry him, for he has only his apprenticeship--no money and no title. He resolves to ask her to wait for him--to avoid marrying anyone else-until he returns from the war with his fortune (hopefully) made.

This I Believe

* * * SPOILER * * *
I guess I'm an unorthodox mother. Surprise. I keep adding to the list of things that somehow end up getting confessed in an underhanded whisper, like it's something to be ashamed of or to keep secret: I have my babies at home; I don't immunize them for the first year; I put them to sleep on their stomachs; I homeschool; I don't think doctors know everything. And this Thanksgiving, as I sat around the table chatting with the other mothers present, I added another. I don't lie to my children about Santa Claus. *Gasp.*

But let's be real. What does Santa Claus have to do with Christmas, anyway? Some die-hards will say that he embodies the spirit of giving and that our children can learn to be generous by following his example. But doesn't Christ embody the spirit of giving, and shouldn't our children learn to be generous by following His example?

Others tell me that I am taking away the magic of Christmas for my children by not allowing them to believe that one saintly man can pack a sleigh full of toys for every child in the world and visit them all and give them all exactly what they wanted on the same night each year. But I never remember believing in Santa Claus, and my childhood memories are replete with magical Christmases and sweet surprises.

It's not as though I pulled my son aside one day and whispered in his ear, "Guess what, Joe? There's no such thing as Santa Claus." But he is a curious little boy and he wants to know the truth about everything. So when he asked me, point blank, "Mom, is the tooth fairy real?" I said, "No." When he followed that up with, "What about Santa Claus?" I couldn't look at his innocent face and lie to him. I don't lie to my kids. Not about anything.

That way, when he comes to me one day and says, "Mom, is God real?" I can tell him that God is real, and he doesn't have to wonder if I'm lying to him like I lied about Santa Claus. Because there are so many wonderful, awesome, magical, and completely real things and people to believe in. Like God, and angels, and the miracle of a Savior being born in a stable in Bethlehem so long ago. And I don't want to take the chance that the real meaning of Christmas is superceded by a lie, no matter how sweet and magical Hollywood and tradition and commercialism make it out to be.

But why does it seem like I'm the bad guy? Other mothers tell me they don't mind if I tell my son the truth, but I should teach him not to tell other kids. Because if other mothers wish to lie to their children, they should be allowed to do it without fear that someone will spoil it for them. As if that belief is built on such a shaky foundation that one little, five-year-old boy who likes to tell people what he knows can totally destroy it.

I'm sure that, as he gets older, people will often tell my son, "There is no God." I certainly don't intend to pull them aside and ask them not to. If I haven't taught him well enough up to that point that he can think about it and decide for himself whether or not he believes, then what kind of mother am I?

So this Christmas season, in our unorthodox household, we will not open any presents labeled "From: Santa." If we leave any cookies out on a plate, my children will know, in the morning, that Dad ate them. All givers of gifts will receive their proper acknowledgement. And my son, who knows that there is no Santa Claus, will know that Jesus was born for us and died for us all so that He could give us the gift of eternal life. As unorthodox as it is, this I believe.

A sleeping baby

A sleeping baby is
a rare gift
from God
who waits until you're
listening.

He wants to make sure
you notice how
she fits, in your arms,
in the arms of the rocking chair--

How she lets go of everything
and head, body, arms, and legs
grow heavy in her sleep.
She does not second-guess you.

And you are the portal
for her sweet, puppy dreams
that only babies get.

Years from now, you are the only one
who will remember
how that little, warm body
wrapped in a footed sleeper,
draped on your chest,
trusted you completely.

Jane Fairfax: a novel Chapter One

Jane Fairfax had no intention of ever marrying. Although she was more accomplished than most young women in all those degrees of accomplishment that can be acquired by diligence or natural aptitude, she yet lacked the most important factor that befits a marriageable woman--money. Having acquired a strong sensibility at a particularly young age, she understood that, despite her many accomplishments, great personal charm and beauty, the absence of a dowry overshadowed her every other virtue. She was orphaned before growing old enough to retain a memory of her parents. Good fortune had secured her an upbringing and education far better than Mrs. and Miss Bates, her grandmother and maiden aunt, could have provided, but that fortune did not extend beyond the capacity of preparing her to work for her own support during her remaining years. Her guardians, the Campbells, loved her as their own daughter, who loved her even more. But their income failed to extend any further. Jane's stoic disposition had helped her to accept her fate without complaint and almost without spoiling her enjoyment of each present moment. Still, it was with greater than usual trepidation that she prepared her toilette in anticipation of the evening's entertainment.

The process of beautifying oneself is not a particularly difficult mental challenge, and Jane struggled to keep her mind on the task. It insisted on straying back into the memory of a few evenings previously when her dear friend and bedfellow, Miss Clara Campbell, had made the acquaintance of one Mr. Dixon, a landed gentleman of no little income who had shown a definite preference for her company. Miss Campbell, often spoken of as a plain, good sort of girl, was delighted with the attention, and Jane, with all the goodness of her unselfish heart, was pleased and happy for her friend. The accompaniment to this prelude, however, now began to cause Jane more vexation than she had anticipated. Mr. Dixon had come into the party with his good friend, Mr. Frank Churchill, a name Jane had known almost since her infancy, although she had never met him until then. Since Mr. Dixon had turned his attentions to Clara, and Jane was the only young lady in the room to whom Mr. Churchill had been introduced, it was only natural that he would solicit her conversation during the course of the evening. What seemed to Jane as most unusual, however, was that he seemed to prefer it, that he did not seek other introductions when the general subjects of conversation had been exhausted, and, most extraordinary, that she was glad. No other young man had ever inspired so much as a vague curiosity for better acquaintance. But Frank Churchill--he was no other young man.

She had returned home that evening in high spirits, although she managed to conceal them from all of the Campbells, and spent an hour in contemplation. In the end, she concluded that it had been the most delightful evening she had ever spent, and that it would henceforth be nothing but a pleasant memory to look back on during her solitary days to come. But the Campbells, excited by the interest Mr. Dixon had shown in their daughter, had invited him to join their dinner party that evening, and he had asked to bring his friend along again. Faced with the prospect of seeing him again, and the possibility that he might renew his attentions to her, Jane found it more difficult to keep her resolution. Her hair might be tamed and pinned into place, but her female mind, for all its stoicism, refused to be directed.

As soon as she had completed her preparations, there was a knock on the door. Jane looked up to see Clara rush into the room and sink down on the bed with a pathetic sigh. "Oh, what am I to do?" she cried. "What am I to do?"

"Whatever can you mean?" soothed Jane. "There is nothing to do but sit and look pretty and that will be enough."

"Suppose he asks me a question? He is intelligent, you must admit, and will be wanting to ask me something or other. I mean, beyond the weather and the dancing. He will want to talk about books or music or philosophy or politics. And then I must answer him. But I shall be so afraid of sounding like a ninny that I won't be able to say anything at all. And then I will surely look like a fool who can't even answer a question when she is asked."

"You will do no such thing," Jane insisted. "Listen, and I will tell you what you should do and what you shall say. If he asks about a book you have read, you tell him it was interesting and ask him what he thought of it. If he wants to know about music or philosophy, you profess that you love both of them and then ask him what he thinks of them--which is his favorite--which one he despises (for he is sure to despise one or the other, even if he will not admit it at first). If he asks about the weather, you can tell him that it is not so nice as Bath but surely better than London---"

"Oh, but he will see right through that!" interrupted Clara. "Surely he will know that I am just trying to turn the attention back to him."

"He will be so happy to tell you what he thinks that he will not stop to think about what you think." Jane smiled. "Depend upon it, my dear, that I think Mr. Dixon is a fine young man and a good prospect for you. I really do. But I am positive that he is no different than other fine young men with good prospects."

"What do you mean?" Clara demanded, sitting up. "Do you mean that he is vain? He has some pride, I am sure, but is not unattractive in one so educated and brought up."

"Of course not," said Jane with a smile. "I simply mean that he, like other men, will prefer the woman who smiles to the woman who speaks. And you need have no worries in that department, for you have the most beautiful smile that ever lighted upon any man or woman. As long as you smile, he will adore you."

Clara laid back down on the bed and stretch out her arms. "You sound so sure. But you are always sure of everything. Oh, Jane, why can't I be more like you? You always know exactly what to say and what to do."

Jane leaned forward and whispered, "I will tell you my secret, shall I?" Clara lifted her head up and look at Jane expectantly. "When you don't know what to say, say nothing. When you don't know what to do, just sit still and look pretty." Clara laughed and laid her head down again.

"You don't believe me, but it is true," Jane continued aloud. "You cannot call good or bad fortune to yourself by sounding intelligent or by saying or doing the right thing. If chance is to smile upon you, then she will smile upon you whether or you frown or laugh. So you might as well be caught laughing, my dear, because she is going to visit you soon. I promise you that. Now, shall we go downstairs?"

"Are you finished?" Clara asked as she stood up, smoothing her dress and touching her hair in the mirror.

"I am," replied Jane. "I could sit in front of this mirror for another hour without it making a single difference except that I would be even more sick of looking at myself." She reached out her hand and Clara grasped it.

"Thank you," she whispered. "You always save me."

"Not at all," Jane whispered back. "It is you who are saving me."

I Know Everythong

*Note: After I posted the poem titled "I Know Everything," I was chatting, left-handed, with my brother while nursing Auralee. I told him to go check out the new poem I had posted, but I made a typing error. He was disappointed to find out the real title of the poem. So in his honor, I have written the poem he thought he was going to get to read.

I Know Everythong
My father was a boxer--
a not very good one--
girdled by bikini-clad women
trying to seduce him
and tank-top-clad men
trying to reduce him
to just a jock, strapped for cash.

My mother was a player--
a not very good one--
a fiddler with a g-string
always out of tune.

They married and moved
to a second-story flat
and she got a job
at the brassierie under where
they lived.

But their romance was brief.
It was difficult to tell
who wore the pant(ie)s in the family
(Of course, it's always something, I hear,
and it takes two to tanga.)

So he said, "farewell,"
and she said, "so long, John."
And that was when I was conceived.

So now you know everythong,
and boy, is it short!

I Know Everything

I know everything
not worth knowing.

Like the proper spelling of mackerel,
which is useless to me
because I will never write it.
Except once.
In this poem.

My brain cells are crammed with
phone numbers,
old math equations,
Beatles trivia,
one hundred "great thoughts"
Mr. Wetherell made me memorize in tenth grade.

If it's redundant, useless, and otherwise
completely irrelevant to daily life,
I'm bound to know it.

My husband (he says)
knows nothing that is
not worth knowing.

His brain cells are emptier.

He doesn't have to know, of course,
because if he wonders, he can always
ask me.

For instance,
"where are my shoes?"
"what does deleterious mean?"
"what's the name of that song?"
"how do you spell mackerel?"

(that's twice)

Maybe I think that if I hold tight
to the vestiges of life before motherhood
I will not lose myself completely.

Or maybe I think, if I remember enough details,
I will finally write a poem worth reading.

Well, it won't be this one.
M-A-C-K-E....

on cleaning and the different sexes

I’m getting ready to clean the bathroom, which for me is a complicated process. First I have to gather cleaning supplies, of which I have about two dozen. I have cleansers with and without bleach, cleansers with and without Lysol disinfectant, cleansers with and without ammonia, and cleansers with and without anything in them that actually cleans, but they smell good so... I have cleansers that remove soap scum and cleansers that remove hard water. Some of my cleansers are made for scrubbing without scratching, some are made for cleaning without scrubbing, and some are made for scratching without scrubbing or cleaning (I haven’t yet figured out where to use that, but I keep it on hand just in case.)

I have a different cleanser to clean every surface in the bathroom; the sink and the countertop on which the sink rests require two different cleansers (so as not to scratch the porcelain). The outside and the inside of the toilet, of course, require two different cleansers, and even the mirror requires a different cleanser than the chrome fixtures in the sink and shower. And speaking of the shower, I am eternally grateful that I don’t have glass doors, because that would definitely require a whole host of different cleansers that, if added to my ten-gallon bucket of cleansers, would make it too heavy to carry up the stairs.

In the other hand, I have materials to use with the cleansers--sponges, dust cloths, cleaning rags, dishcloths, paper towels, cleaning towels, scrub brushes, toilet brushes, latex gloves, plastic garbage bags, a broom and dustpan, a mop, and a toothbrush for scrubbing the grout between the tiles. By the time I have gathered up all of the supplies for cleaning the bathroom, I am out of time and energy to complete the job.

My mom taught me how to clean. She instilled in me the knowledge of which cleanser to use on which surface, as well as how to clean that surface properly. She was fastidious about cleaning, and I grew up thinking it was a sin to use windex to wipe down the toilet or comet to clean the bowl. Of course, I also thought that it was unhealthy to cut a sandwich on the diagonal so that you had two triangles instead of two rectangles, so I’m beginning to think that some of my mom’s tutelage was unintentional.

My husband, luckily, is helping me overcome this obsession with cleansers. When I finally lug all of my supplies up the stairs, I meet him coming out of the bathroom. “What are you doing?” he asks. “I’m going to clean the bathroom,” I say. “I just did it for you,” he reassures me. Looking at my heavily laden arms, I ask, with trepidation, “What did you use?”

“Hand soap,” he tells me cheerfully, and walks into the bedroom whistling tunelessly, obviously proud of himself for doing a job without being asked to. I am afraid that if I just go into the bathroom and inspect the job, I will have to go to confession afterward. But my mother’s compulsion gets the best of me and I know that no matter how good it looks, the bathroom mirror will not really be clean until I have sprayed it with Windex and wiped it down with paper towels.

Unfortunately, I am out of Windex. This is a catastrophe. I can’t use Comet, obviously, because the powder wouldn’t stick to a vertical surface and it would be horrible to try and rinse off. I try the cleansers in spray bottles one by one, but they all leave streaks, even with the two-ply, industrial strength paper towels on which you can wash grapes without breaking them. The toilet bowl cleanser and mopping solution are, of course, out of the question, as is the chrome cleanser and the cream cleanser I sometimes use for countertops. I could try a dusting cleanser, but the mirror is dusty, not dirty. I clean the rest of the bathroom carefully, hoping that, if everything else is spotless, the mirror will be able to wait until I can get to the store for Windex. But every time I turn around, I see toothpaste sprays, tweezed eyebrows, two-year-old fingerprints, and condensation drips. It cannot wait. I have to clean the mirror, even if it is the death of me. There is only one solution; I don’t like it, but it is the only way. I have to use the hand soap.