As a public service, I would like to let everyone know that the source of all dust in the universe is apparently somewhere near me.
No, I did not happen to move to the mountain of motes. It has always been the case. No matter where I am, there, too, is dust. I sometimes feel like the “Peanuts” character Pigpen.
Where does it come from? Yes, I’ve read the stories that claim that the majority of household dust is sloughed-off skin cells. I do not buy this. If it were true, there would be nothing left of me. (Though you may have noticed as I have that each time one does laundry, an impressive amount of lint is produced — yet the clothing never disappears entirely.) And, okay, I do occasionally do a little sanding indoors, when it’s too inconvenient to walk all the way outside, but I do it over the sink, for Heaven’s sake.
No matter what I do, sand things indoors or not, the level of dust remains pretty much constant. I could vacuum a dozen times and the amount of dust I’d get the last time around would be the same as the amount the first time. It is as if some helpful but misguided demon presence concludes that I must want the stuff, since I spend so much time collecting it. Hey, have you ever heard of a Dirt Devil?
I think that I may be possessed of some sort of new physical phenomenon, which I’ll call the Universal Dust Constant. If I clean everything spotlessly today, there will be a layer of dust on everything in the morning. But if I do not clean, the layer of dust tomorrow will be no greater than if I had.
The vacuum cleaner has its “hepa” filter, as does the air intake of the furnace and air conditioner. These apparently exist solely to keep the hepa filter people in business — I imagine they winter in the islands, if everyone else has to replace those filters as frequently as I do. But of course everyone does not, because all the world’s dust is generated near where I am. I vacuum so you don’t have to.
The hepa filter craze is the result of it being publicized that our homes are filled with microscopic monsters called dust mites. They are in our furniture, we are told. They are in our carpets. They are even in our bedding. Once, I heard Paul Harvey say that after a couple of years, more than half the weight of a typical bedroom pillow is dust mite poop. I remember it because that was the day I rushed out and bought pillow covers that are guaranteed not to let dust mites and their evidence in or out.
That was when I lived in a house that came equipped with a central vacuum cleaner. This wonder of modern life had outlets in most every room, and it would switch on when you plugged a hose into any of those outlets. When it was on, it sounded as if there were a jet engine testing facility right next to my office, with a contract for the kind of engine now banned on commercial airliners because they are too loud.
The trend recently has been toward “bagless” vacuum cleaners. With these, a container within the machine gets full of dust, hair, lint, dust mites and their product, and so on. A light comes on when this reservoir is full. Then you have to release the stuff back into the world. The idea is that you no longer have to replace bags, which you forgot to get and which are no longer made anyway. Instead, now you have to replace a filter, which you forgot to get and which is no longer made. Important consumer tip: when purchasing a vacuum cleaner, buy enough bags or filters to last the rest of your life. For most people, this means six of them. We tend to let them get very full.
While replacing a bag in the jet engine once, I had the thing burst and I inhaled about a half pound of whatever was in there. I was well and truly sick for a week. The stuff isn’t good for us.
I probably deserved it. Once, while a radio network editor, I put a little joke in the desk notes I left for the editor who followed me. A new study, I said, had concluded that in the course of a typical lifetime a person inhales or swallows five pounds, four ounces of hair, 192 pounds of dirt, 63 pounds of skin cells, and $13.25 in change. The last item I included lest some foolish anchor see it, conclude it was real, and put it on the air. On my drive home I switched on the radio, in time to hear “… and $13.25 in change.”
Maybe that’s where Paul Harvey heard about it.
Dennis E. Powell is crackpot-at-large to Open for Business. Powell was an award-winning reporter in New York and elsewhere before moving to Ohio and becoming a full-time crackpot. You can reach him at dep@drippingwithirony.com.