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“My wife is always trying to get rid of me. The other day she told me to put the garbage out. I said to her I already did. She told me to go and keep an eye on it.”

August 25, 2014

This morning I was awake far earlier than usual, at 6:30. I went on the deck and filled the bird feeders then stayed there to read my papers and drink my coffee. I find early mornings have the most glorious smells and sounds. The air is crisp and clean and scented with flowers and newly mowed grass. Birds sing and I can hear the flapping of their wings as they fly in and out of the feeders. The coffee this morning was hot and strong. I had a second cup then I left to meet my friend for our Monday morning breakfast.

I don’t remember watching my mother clean the house. During the school year she did it while we were gone. During the summers we were never around the house to watch her. Only my two little sisters were and they were mostly in the backyard, not yet being old enough to wander. I’d leave for school, and when I got home, my bed was made. I’d put my clothes in the hamper and they’d reappear cleaned and folded. It was a bit like the elves and the shoemaker. The dish strainer usually had clean dishes sitting in it to dry. We were to rinse any glasses or dishes we used and leave them in the sink. My father went crazy if we didn’t rinse out our glasses. He’d yell if he found a dirty glass on the counter. He called it the height of laziness. I thought he was underestimating how lazy we could get, but I knew better than to mention it. No one ever owned up to the dirty glass. That would have been foolish.

Except for my brother we never had any chores growing up. His was to empty the kitchen basket into the outside barrel. Trash was traditionally a male chore. Once in a while my mother would ask me to empty the garbage. She had a triangular plastic garbage holder in the corner of her sink. I’d take it outside touching as little of it as possible, use my foot to open the metal cover of the in-ground garbage bin then I’d dump the garbage and bang the container on the corner of the bin to make sure it was empty. The garbage always had maggots. I’d watch them for a while. Garbage grossed me out but maggots never did. I never thought that strange. Maggots were interesting while garbage just plain smelled bad.

Categories: Musings
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“Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.”

February 26, 2013

Gracie is my barometer. She has been in and out all morning so I know it’s warm outside. When she first went out, I watched her run the perimeter of the yard at top speed. When she came inside, she was panting and had the usual amount of spit on her face. I also have the front door open for her. She loves to sit there for hours and look outside. My street, though, is so very small I can’t imagine what holds her attention except in the late afternoon when people walk their dogs by the house. That sends Gracie into a frenzy of barking and jumping at the door. She is not a lover of dogs unless she can meet them on her own terms: face to face with plenty of sniff time and no human interference.

Today is another I have nothing on my list to do day. Yesterday I finished all my chores and also swept and wet mopped the kitchen floor. I have no idea what compels me to do these household chores. I just know that every now and then I get the cleaning bug, a virus for which I wish there was a cure.

My mother didn’t work outside the house when we were kids. She spent the day at home doing laundry and cleaning. I know I always had clean clothes, my bed was made every day, the rug in the living room was vacuumed, my blouses and skirts were ironed and the dust was gone, but I seldom saw her cleaning. It was almost like the shoemaker and the elves, but it was really because my mother did it all when we were in school. The only thing I did see was my mother making dinner every night. In my mind’s eye, I can see her at the kitchen sink, her back to the door, as she peeled potatoes, cut them up and put them on to cook. The stove was behind her to the left on the wall opposite the sink. It was white. All the appliances were white back then. Harvest gold and avocado hadn’t yet made an appearance. The kitchen was small with very little counter space. The fridge was beside the sink with a small counter in between them. That’s where my mother kept her dish rack with a rubber mat underneath. The mat was opened at one end so the water from the dishes went back into the sink. My mother believed in air drying dishes. I do too.

Categories: Musings
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“Well, if you can’t be happy washing dishes, you’ll never be happy doing anything.”

September 3, 2010

The morning is quite humid and really still; nothing is moving in the thick air. It’s almost eerie. I’ve been watching the weather, and Earl will here late this afternoon, but he seems to be losing steam as he comes up the coast. The brunt of the storm will on the ocean side, east of us but close to Nantucket. I did a lot of preparation yesterday, but I still need to take down the bird feeders and turn over the chairs. I do need help with the palm tree so my friend Tony will be here later, but everything else is down and protected. The deck looks winter bare.

Yesterday I went and bought a few provisions, my kind of provisions. I bought quesadillas, dip, cheese, crackers and a Milky Way. I’m all set. At one counter, I stood next to an older woman who was laughing as she chose her provisions: a codfish dinner, a piece of summer lemon cake and some clam chowder. She said she wanted to ride out the storm in style.

Yesterday I washed dishes, one of my favorite mindless activities. All of a sudden I remembered our kitchen after dinner and my mother at the sink. The kitchen was quite small. The table was against the wall across from the back door. The sink was in the middle of the kitchen counter not all that far from the table. I used to do my homework at the kitchen table, a quiet place after dinner. The family, except for my mother and me, was in the living room with the TV. I remember studying to the sound of running water as my mother washed the dinner dishes. I’d sometimes look up from my books and watch her. She’d use a soapy dishrag to wash the dishes then rinse the soap off under the running water. I remember the sound of clinking dishes and silverware as my mother filled the dish strainer. We seldom said a word to one another, lost as were in each of our tasks. I do remember my mother standing there, but I remember the sounds most of all.

Categories: Musings
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