• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Things eventually worked out. The accused pleaded guilty (months later, after we sorted out the check-forgery issue), the political organization received restitution, and my old professor went on with his life. No long-term harm was done from my failure, but at that moment, standing there with all eyes on me, I was feeling less than Franklin-like.

The virtue of Order had gotten off to a marvelous start.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

My struggles with Order are a tale of two women. Like many men, I am torn between my mother and my wife.

I don’t know that these two women know they are in competition for my virtuous soul, but their natures pull me in two directions. While they share many common traits, get along very well, and both love and accept me (I hope), they are, in at least one respect, very different. My wife, as you may have gathered, is a pragmatist. She believes in lists and plans and order. She does not like to keep things (other than records), as “things” generally serve no purpose in her mind. She sells keepsakes and discards mementos. She is a creature of practicality, not sentimentality

My mother, on the other hand, is a keeper of things. Her basement is a treasure trove (or minefield if you seek my father’s opinion) of kitsch, knickknacks, and life’s souvenirs. She preserves her own memories and acquires those of others. She does not believe in throwing anything away because it may have historical value. She does not make lists or have plans—she just does. Though she loves my wife, I have standing orders from her that when she (my mother) passes, Michelle is not allowed to clean out her “things.”

So I am torn between these two poles of Order. I see the value of my wife’s organization and pragmatism. As a man trained in the law, I know there is benefit in the realism of Michelle’s nature. The logician in me likes her approach.

On the other hand, I share, as a product of nature or nurture, my mother’s desire to keep the pieces of the past. She is a historian of sorts, and I seem to have inherited that mantel. I eschew lists and plans and seek spontaneity. The romantic in me appreciates her attachment to the preservation of memories.

And thus I tackled Order (still having a limited understanding of the concept) in the context of this struggle (though unknown to the players) for my orderly soul.

The problem was that I was not sure that I could change a lifetime of disorder in the course of a week. Despite my misgivings, I tried. I awoke, again, with good intentions. Hope seemed to spring from my bed with me as I prepared for a new day of Order. But then good intentions met bad habits, or at least disorganized ones. As I have managed to have a pretty good life without Order, I was having a little trouble with self-motivation.

But that was not the quest. No one stands in his stirrups, raises his sword, and calls back to the troops, “To mediocrity!” I was seeking moral perfection here, damn it, and I would not be denied by my own shortcomings (well, actually, that was exactly my expectation, but I was not ready to write things off at that point).

I started off slowly. I cleaned up my office a little, but I think the operative phrase here is “a little.” I needed organization on a grander scale. I have attempted organization in the past. I have made checklists and shortcuts for processes at work, but I still seem disorganized. I’d buy one of those “how to get organized” books, but I’m sure I’d lose it.

I needed something grand in vision.

I turned, at least metaphorically, to my wife, keeper of lists and maker of plans. She makes lists for everything: food, recreation, school, housework. Even romance is a matter for a to-do list. I have to tell you, it is a little disconcerting to see something like: “Be nice to Cameron” on a list among: “Buy bell peppers” and “Clean out garbage can.”

You can’t argue with success, though. If my wife has a list, she is productive—if she doesn’t have one,