Thoughts in a Soap Bucket

Start by giving the whole car a good soaking with water. Knock off the worst of the dirt, especially in the wheel wells. 

Mix up the water and the soap; two caps worth of Mother’s California Gold or Meguiar’s (or whatever someone had gotten for Christmas). Grab two terry cloths, a brush, and wheel cleaner. 

The steps are muscle memory now. Developed over years of washing cars alongside my dad until it became a chore I took care of myself. 

Until I had my own vehicle, I hated it. 

But once I had my own ride, things changed. I took a little extra time to get those tough spots where mud had splattered up or tree sap sat a little too long. 

And I worked hard to get the grime collected in the interior's tiny corners. Spots no one else would notice, but to me, are what really made the car clean. There was plenty of time to think when washing the car. The moments alone, washing, rinsing, and repeating, gave me time to consider a lot of life.  

Each vehicle I’ve had is unique in how long it takes to wash. For a good, deep cleaning, I always plan on two hours, at least. 

But, as I’ve aged and life's problems have grown more complex, I find myself reaching for the five-gallon bucket. It sits under our house and holds most of the same materials and brands I used more than 15 years ago. 

Now, an hour and a half from where I grew up, I do the same routine in my driveway. And like when I was a kid, I still wash someone else’s car along with mine. The muscle memory comes back. I start with the roof and work my way down. 

Terry cloth in hand, I begin with the passenger side fender. I do my work in sections, washing, rinsing (top to bottom) and moving on. 

I get intense satisfaction from washing a car. It feels gratifying to put my hands to work cleaning something tangible. Most of my career has been spent at a keyboard, on call, or in meetings. I’ve never had jobs demanding much-skilled labor with my hands beyond navigating a Google Doc or Microsoft product. 

So, when I can stick my hands in a bucket of soapy water and remove the road’s grit, it helps me reconnect.

I’ve thought about a lot of problems while covering the windshield with a layer of white suds. 

I’ve taken out frustration on the remnants of bugs long dead, now in their permanent place of rest on my grill. The sound of a vacuum has drowned the noise of the world around me and let me focus for 10 minutes or so. 

The final step is always cleaning the interior. I’ll grab a cloth and a bottle of Griot’s and buff, shine, and clean the plastics and soft parts around the cab. 

This part of the process always feels fitting. It wraps up the hard work done on the exterior and brings everything together. It’s like wiping clean all the mess I’ve been thinking about while doing the work. 

And after all the cleaning, I’m the next one who needs a shower. Usually, I’ll take a few moments to sit on the steps and admire my work. I’ll drain a water bottle or sip on what’s left of a beer. And whatever’s been bothering me, the thing I worked in my mind while I applied the soap, doesn’t seem as daunting. 

The muscle memory of washing the car helps solve a problem. I take it bit by bit, working on what’s in front of me. And when it’s all done, I know things will be much cleaner, not so messy or full of junk.