When I was a teenager, many decades ago, there was a constant battle between my mom and me about the messy condition of my bedroom. It was hard to deny the charge; the evidence was in plain view, and there was plenty of it.

One day my dad could no longer tolerate the bickering and, with Solomon-like wisdom proclaimed that everything on the inside of my bedroom was mine, to do with as I willed. Everything outside my bedroom, belonged to my mom, and her compulsive need for cleanliness, had to be respected.

I had always noticed, when visitors were coming, my mother’s notion of clean came close to antiseptic and I always thought this to be an affectation. This mildly annoyed me as well, because I knew I was a slob, and, left to my druthers, I wouldn’t go out of my way to keep it a secret.

Today, an incident occurred that brought all of this back to me. A young colleague of mine, knowing that I am an avid walker and cyclist, asked me to be her walking partner until she established walking as a habit. She was due at my mobile home later this morning.

I woke up and began my routine of brushing, flossing and shaving. But my face seemed a bit out of focus. I squinted, and refocused. There was still a problem. OMG! The bathroom mirror is filthy! I remembered that I had secreted away some Windex. I got it out and cleaned an area, and there I was, back in focus.

Uh, oh! Maybe there is more dirt. Perusing the area left me with an unavoidable conclusion: This place is a pigsty. I don’t want to humiliate myself. I will be found out. I know that I should have some standards.

The more I cleaned, the more dirt I found; the surfaces the carpet, the kitchen floor. It really did not take very much time and effort, plus, I figured that after my friend got a whiff of the ever present odor of old dog (hey, my dog is 13 and I have no fenced yard; more precisely I have a yard, and it would be ample if my pet was a rat) she probably would not have the sensual acuity to notice much else.

My friend arrived at my door and I bid her to enter. I told her to stand in the middle of the living room and then told her to do a 360 degree turn.

“What was that?” she asked. “A tour of my house” I replied.

We had a nice walk and a nice chat, and I was almost sorry she did not ask to use the bathroom, because it shone.

After my friend left I realized that I felt much more comfortable in a clean house. I know that my mom loved me, even though I failed to live up to any of her expectations, and, I must admit, some of her criticism was well founded.

Nelson Strasser lives in Lakeport, Calif.