Chores

I grew up in a little town in Massachusetts – Seekonk.  It’s right on the Rhode Island border, so my childhood accent was a mix of Massachusetts twang with Rhode Island drawl.  Probably not the most appealing combination to the ear.

I grew up in a simple ranch home that Dad built.  Growing up, everyone in the family had responsibilities.  My brother and sister and I all had chores. to do.  My mom and dad were experts at divvying up the responsibilities around the house.

The yard was divided into three sections. My older sister, Jane, had the side yard to the right of the house.   My older brother, Alan, had the front and a piece of the left side yard.  I had the straight flat backyard.  During those spring, summer and even some fall days, we had to cut that grass.

Inside, we each had daily responsibilities.  I usually set the table, Alan usually cleared it and Jane had to clean and load the dishwasher. My mom emptied the dishwasher.  She routinely completed this chore in the early morning.  I can remember hearing the clank of the plates and ting of the silverware as she put it all away, as I lay half asleep, still in bed.

On the weekends, one of us had to vacuum, someone had to dust and someone had to clean bathrooms.  These chores weren’t delegated but rather chosen.  My mom would just holler out what needed to be done and it was first come first serve on the chores.

My favorite was cleaning the bathroom.  I remember getting enjoying watching the soap scum disappear from the well used sink.  I remember watching the Comet meld with the water.  I remember swishing that toilet bowl brush around the porcelain throne.  The smell and glow of a newly cleaned bathroom gave me sense of clean satisfaction.

Second to cleaning the bathroom was dusting.  In our front, “formal”, living room we had a bookcase that was home to framed pictures and knick knacks and of course a full set of Encyclopedia Britannica.  I remember taking everything off the book case, dousing it with lemon scented Pledge and clearing the dust with various strokes of my rag.  The best part was rearranging all the pictures and knick knacks.  Not only was the bookcase dusted, it got a revision thanks to my reorganization.

To this day, I still get that sense of clean satisfaction after scouring a bathroom.  I dust not when someone tells me to, or on any particular day of the week I dust  when I can actually see that a thin layer has collected on a night stand or an end table. Dusting still doesn’t bother me all that much. It’s still somewhat satisfying.  Now emptying the dishwasher was not a childhood chore, however, as an adult it is the chore I despise.   I think I am still haunted by the sounds of clanking dishes and tinging silverware when I was trying to sleep.

Now, mornings are meant for quiet and coffee not clanging dishes and tinging silverware.  But that darn dishwasher still has to be emptied – where’s Mom?