I stacked tonight’s dirty dishes on top of last night’s still littering the sink.

My kicked my balled-up coat further into the corner against the closet door — the coat closet door.

I haven’t coaxed the vacuum cleaner to life since… let’s not get into that. I don’t know if my calendar stretches back that far.

As I survey my apartment, I know that it’s time. Action must be taken. It’s time.

I’m going to invite company over.

I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but “Company’s coming!” was the battle cry that always preceded “ridding up” places where I’ve lived.

“Company’s coming!” was perhaps the most stressful aspect of my childhood.

All of us kids were pressed into forced labor to perform unreasonable tasks: put away our toys, unbury the dining room table and get our socks and underwear off the floor and into the dirty clothes basket (which often was where we had gotten them from in the first place).

Dad exacerbated the stress by sweeping all the stacks and piles of papers off the buffet into a trash bag. Mom would hide the trash bag. The next time Dad was at work, she’d plow through the “garbage” Dad tossed to rescue incidentals like letters from family, coupons that she’d clipped, bills to be paid, the checkbook…

It is said that “Nature abhors a vacuum.” A former co-worker named Steve added to that: “An empty flat surface is an abomination to Nature.”

This is why no matter how often you “rid up” coffee tables, nightstands, end tables, desks, buffets and the like, it ALL comes back. And brings friends.

When it came to clearing flat surfaces, Dad didn’t discriminate. It ALL went out.

When Dad said, “Company’s coming. Rid up this place,” we kids stayed out of the way. When company left, we kids counted off to make sure there were still four of us. If not, we checked to see if any of the trash bags were wriggling.

One of the reasons that I couldn’t wait to become an adult (Oh, the foolishness of youthful thinking) was that I would be able to do ANYTHING I wanted and NOBODY could boss me around, not even when company’s coming. Love me, love my mess.

But as an adult, I had acquired a wife. A wonderful woman, she totally agreed with me that I could do anything I wanted to do.

And she told me in specific detail exactly what it was that I wanted to do.

I didn’t know that I wanted to “rid up” the place because company was coming, but she assured me that I did. When I gazed deeply into her eyes — reminiscent of the glare of a crazed wolverine — I realized, yes, I believe I do want to rid up the place. I’ll start by sweeping everything off the end table into a trash bag.

Time has passed and so has my wife. The kids have grown up and gone off to mess up their own houses. I no longer have pets, not even squirrels in the attic of my new place like the old house had. I live alone, which would make it a simple task to keep things in a neat and orderly fashion.

I can do whatever I want.

Apparently, I want to keep house like an 8-year-old boy who never worries about having visitors. It’s getting on my nerves.

The only solution I can think of is to invite company over. That kind of stress not only would motivate me to empty the trash cans and gather up in the recycling, but it probably also would jog my memory about where I stashed the mop, broom and dustpan.

I hope I didn’t leave them lying on the table before the last time I “ridded up.” Maybe I better peek inside the trash bags. Company’s coming!

Pay a visit to Cole at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. Also, tell him if you believe the term is “redd up,” not “rid up.” If he hadn’t swept his dictionary into a trash bag, he’d know.