"Doing Dishes"

          When we first moved to San Antonio in the 1960s, the biggest draw of excitement for the new house came from the dishwasher. The luxury of simply rinsing the dishes, pots and pans and then placing them into a machine that washed them seemed decadent to us. I don’t remember anyone complaining about doing the dishes during those first years that we had a machine.

         This little dishwasher toiled away for ten years before its motor burned out. My father’s comment when he realized the expense for replacement? “I have three dishwashers in this house. We don’t need another.”

Resentfully, the women in the household took over the machine’s duties. My sister usually cleared the table, putting any leftovers into neat Tupperware containers and stacking the dishes in a manageable pile. I manned the sink of hot sudsy water. As Paula brought dishes to me, I’d quickly submerge them, scour them clean, and dip them into the second sink filled with rinse water. I didn’t mind this chore, but I often wished the scenery I viewed wasn’t the dining room table. I swore that if I even owned a home, I’d have a kitchen sink with a window that overlooked the yard. No one listened to my grumbles as I scrubbed. My mother just calmly dried each plate and restacked them neatly so my sister could put them away. I may have complained a little more when it came to doing the pots and pans, but with my SOS Brillo pad in hand no job proved insurmountable.

Me and my window!

When I left home for college and my first apartment, I thrilled in having a dishwasher again. Only I barely used it at first because I lived alone. If I didn’t want ants or roaches invading my place, I couldn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink. If I had to rinse the dishes enough to keep the insects away, then I figured I should just wash them by hand. I didn’t begin to rely upon a dishwasher until I roomed with three other women. We constructed a simple rule. If you cooked, you didn’t clean. Three of us cooked on a rotation. One roommate never touched the stove, so she always did some kind of clean-up, but she never complained.

Eventually, my apartment living gave way to home ownership. When David and I bought our house, which was built in 1966, it had a portable dishwasher. The little butcher block model sat on one wall across from the sink. You had to roll it over to the sink and attach a hose to the faucet. Needless to say, it leaked. We rarely used it, but it didn’t matter.

The sink in this kitchen overlooks a huge back yard filled with trees. I could finally stand on the inside, hands submerged in heat and suds, and watch butterflies and hummingbirds. We lived in our current home seven years before we remodeled the kitchen and added a dishwasher. I didn’t shift back to automation as easily as you’d think. By this time, I had several sets of dishes and glasses that I didn’t want to run through a machine. I still preferred to clean pots and pans by hand. When this machine eventually died, we didn’t rush for a replacement. Eventually, the pace of our daily routine converted dishes into another dreaded chore, and my complaints lead my husband and son to search for a perfect replacement.

Every day, though, I still stand at the sink and gaze out into my gardens. I’ll load most of the dishes into the machine, but hand wash a set of plastic tumblers I bought at Target for under $2.00 a piece! These smoky goblets bore the instructions—hand wash to keep glass appearance. As they look so much like glass that you don’t believe they’re plastic unless you touch them, I figure I’ll spend a little time each day with hands submerged and eyes gazing into the backyard.  

Puppy Koi "helping" with the dishes

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Cleanliness is Next to Obsessiveness”

 

 

            The other day, I theorized with a friend that the tangle of a childhood spent in base housing still impacts my life fifty years later. While some of my friends grew up surrounded by clutter, our military routine of moving every three or four years meant we traveled lean and mean. My mother never feared the demanding, detailed inspections of our housing since she cleaned everything all the time. She assigned me and my siblings age appropriate duties that were completed daily, weekly, or monthly. My sister’s expertise became dish washer extraordinaire. The iron became my weapon of choice as I stood for hours pressing Dad’s white handkerchiefs or the bed sheets that had wrinkled down into a tight ball.

            My siblings abhor housework. They both attend to the necessities: dishes, laundry, lawns, shopping. They managed, somehow, to escape the flaw I ironed into my personality. Before retiring from the classroom, I drove myself and my family into exhaustion by expecting everyone to reach my unrealistic standards for the house. Fingerprints never lasted on any painted wall. Base boards gleamed. No one ever checked over my door frames, because in real life, they don’t matter. But a white glove test could’ve been run at any time with perfect results.

            Doing less never worked for me. Letting things “go” slung me into anxiety attacks. As time passed, I can embrace the freedom of my husband and son having their space to putter in without going ballistic at their creative messes. Imagine my delight when I retrained my brain to close doors on rooms that are not my territory!

            In retirement, the grace of having time translates into set days for different chores. Monday we “market” with grocery runs and other errands. Tuesdays, if the weather’s not too hot or cold, go to either cleaning the car or doing yard work. Wash days are Wednesdays. Thursdays turned into the hardest day for me: NO CHORE THURSDAY. I read, watch television, and do only projects that bring me bliss. I hold onto Mom’s Friday drill: bathrooms top to bottom, dusting, and floors just in case unexpected company arrives.

            I’d like to say that my expectations have lightened up over the years, but then I’d be lying to everyone!     

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Layer of Dust”

 

            I clean.

            When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.

            I clean.

            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.

            I clean.

            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.

            I clean.

            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.

            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.

            A layer of dust.

            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.

            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.

            A layer of dust.

            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.

            A layer of dust.

            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Nooks-n-Crannies”

 

            Some tasks simply must wait until enough time becomes available before I can tackle them. Even then, my frame of mind needs to zero in on the “time plus effort” equation to evaluate if I really want to take on the chore.

 

            Yesterday, I set about accomplishing the housework that no one else sees, that takes days and days to finish, but often results in the most satisfaction. I spent two and a half hours in the master bathroom taking every item out of the linen closet, sorting through each storage bin for expiration dates of over the counter remedies, organizing hair clasps and head bands, and thoroughly cleaning under the bathroom sink. I dusted every slat on the blinds and buffed every surface to a shine.

 

            My master plan continues into our bedroom today. With vacuum attachments in hand, feather duster nearby, and music swirling around me, I will tackle every drawer! Nineteen in all. I’ll sort through two trunks, and reclaim the closet. I will mercilessly chuck old panty hose into the trash, critically evaluate my affection for a favorite and faded nightie, and decided that calendars dating back three years no longer hold importance.

            I’ll tax my muscles as I inch heavy furniture away from the walls to attack dust bunnies that have bred several litters. My fingers may ache by the end of the day from polishing every surface, but I’ll celebrate smugly when the work winds down because I’ll know the job’s well done.

            And tomorrow? On to the next room and another full assault until I’ve conquered every little nook-n-cranny within the house.   

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Missing Sock"

When I take dirty clothes into the laundry room, I try to make certain every item makes it from the bathroom to the hamper. When I sort the clothes into their designated piles, sometimes I pair the socks as a double check that each duo goes into the wash together. My laundry room, a petite rectangular four by eleven, cannot provide hiding places for anything. Yet . . . at least once a month a sock vanishes. I’ll shift the hamper out of its tight nook, slide a hanger between the washer and the wall, remove the vacuum and the mops, and scour the tiny room with vigilance in search of a missing sock. I’ll retrace my steps from laundry room through the kitchen, retreating to the master bathroom with eagle eyes peering into corners and under the bed. I’ll check the dogs’ toy basket in case Koi kidnapped a sock from the pile. Nothing. I keep the unmatched sock in the clean clothes basket in the belief that its partner will miraculously reappear during the darkness of night. After another week, the lonely sock gets placed in my drawer, sitting in neglected isolation.

             The hide-n-seek game with the missing sock may continue for several weeks. Yesterday, I stripped my mother’s bedding and shook out the fitted sheet of the clean set. A black sock soared through the air and landed on her dresser, knocking over her Chantilly in playful abandon. I immediately scooped up the wayward footwear and placed it in my pocket with a victorious grin. I felt satisfaction as I reunited the lonely sock tucked in my drawer with its partner. A quick inspection revealed that only one more sock sat segregated from the other sets. Prior experience made me pragmatically predict that days may pass before the wayward companion surfaced. However, yesterday turned out lucky for me. The last missing sock nestled in the arm of one of my mother’s nightgowns. Imagine her surprise when she pushed her hand through the sleeve and captured a sock in her hand!

            I feel smug satisfaction in knowing that when I go to bed tonight, every sock in every drawer nestles closely with its mate.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Vinegar and Bleach”

         Budgeting since my retirement means reevaluating exactly where I want to spend my dollars. A couple of months ago, I had one of those terrible weeks where every cleanser in the house came up empty. I hate it when all of my sprays and scrubs run out at the same time because they eat such a huge chunk out of our grocery budget. Even with coupons, the cost of Scrubbing Bubbles, Pine Sol, and Windex added together on one bill translates into less to eat for the week. I started fearing that my emaciated body would keel over from starvation as I scrubbed the tubs.

         Last month, I refused to buy another round of cleaning supplies. Instead, I grabbed the largest jug of white vinegar I could find with one hand and a gallon plus container of bleach with my other hand. (Poetic license here, of course, because these two items perch on shelves in totally different aisles of H.E.B). I recycled a bottle from one of my old cleansers and loaded it with straight white vinegar. The rest is history! My love affair with the power of white vinegar has grown daily. I clean my kitchen countertops with it. Hard water stains? Vinegar and salt mixed together takes care of that. Is that a barfed up cat hair ball? Spritz and spray with vinegar, and it comes off the carpet without leaving a mark. My living room and kitchen floors (especially the grout) look new again. My windows glisten and the mirrors practically glow! Add a little baking soda to vinegar to make a paste that can clean almost anything.  Although vinegar has a strong scent, the odor dissipates quickly and leaves the rooms smelling chemical free.

         I have a healthy respect for bleach. It doesn’t matter how careful I am, I always manage to splatter a little dot on my clothing. When I began using bleach as one of my major cleansers a couple of weeks ago, I hauled out an old pair of shorts and an already bleach spotted Aggie t-shirt to use on my bleaching days. I douse  a wad of paper towels with bleach and wipe down every surface of both bathrooms. I disinfect the toilets, sinks, and tubs. I scrub the garage floor with a diluted mixture of bleach and water, and I use it in the kitchen to kill bacteria. With bleach, I make certain I keep the room well ventilated, but that’s easy to do.

         The combination of using these two cleansers (which you never combine when actually cleaning) has impacted my ability to buy more at the grocery store. Because white vinegar and bleach are so cheap, I can purchase gallons of each for very little money. With both items in my arsenal, my house stays spotless for less.  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Blending in Marriage”

            After thirty-two years of marriage, friends often query, “How did you stay together so long? What’s the trick?”

            

            I usually shrug my shoulders and shake my head, “I don’t know. Lots of love, but sometimes you fall out of synch with each other. The love may not feel as overpowering as it once was; yet if you wait it out, it comes back stronger and better.” I’ll pause for effect, and then continue, “You have to be friends as well as lovers. And you have to be willing to give up some of the things that are important to you as a person in order to reach for what’s best as a couple. Marriage is never easy—but nothing in life is, right? You’ll both feel anger, frustration and hurt. Own the negative as well as the positive. Always pull together when there’s a problem instead of heading in separate directions or relying on someone outside of your marriage to ‘fix’ things when they go wrong.”

            One of the tricks of marriage is taking two separate lives, with different upbringings and experiences, and blending them together into something wonderful and new. In the early years of our marriage, we made conscious choices of the things we liked or disliked about our childhood. For example, I hated that we moved every two or three years. I wanted to settle on a city or town, sink in roots, and build a life in one place. That didn’t matter as much to David at first. Later on, when I started looking for a bigger house, it turned out David rooted more deeply than I did; and so we added on to our home instead of moving.

            Our biggest area of contention those first years? Keeping house. I grew up a clean freak. Baseboards and door trims got a white glove inspection when we lived on base, and I transferred that tidiness into my adult life. Many of our early arguments revolved around housework. David always pitched in, but did such a horrible job that I ended up redoing many of his chores. After one explosion on why he didn’t clean something correctly, he admitted that he rarely did housework growing up. His bungling attempts, which I misinterpreted as a passive-aggressive dodge of chores, turned out to be total lack of knowledge of how to get something spiffy clean.

            When David and I had been married only a few months, he asked one night, “What do you do to the sheets?”

             “Sheets?” I echoed, puzzled.

          “They always feel so smooth. And they always smell good. Do you do something special with them?”

             “No. I just wash them every week."

           David paused, “Oh, that’s it, then. We didn’t wash our sheets every week. Sometimes more than a month would go by.” He made similar comments on the towels that never became cardboard stiff or smelled sour. Although all of David’s clothing when we first married fit into one paper sack, I was shocked to learn that he’d been told to turn dirty underwear inside-out and wear them a second time!

          These differences in upbringing caused friction during those first years. I couldn’t understand why David didn’t just jump in to clean something, often forgetting that he truly didn’t see that something was dirty because his level of tolerance was so much higher than my own.

            Eventually, we divided house cleaning and yard work not by the usual male/female divisions, but by what each of us likes to do most (or least hates to do). David prefers “picking up” or straightening up clutter. He likes to vacuum, cook, and clean the kitchen. I prefer dusting and laundry. We tackled grocery shopping together until recently. Both of us like working in the yard. Usually David will weed-eat while I’ll mow. We team up for clipping hedges, and I love to piddle in the garden

            Blending occurred in many other areas of our lives. Even after all of these years, we’ll sometimes find ourselves discussing a difference (yes, they still exist) and figuring out the best way to fuse two ways of viewing something into one solution. During this past year, we’ve had new challenges and changes that could strain a marriage; yet we seem to have mastered this blending skill. And frankly, it’s the mixing and merging that makes life interesting. 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Fast Forward”

            Piddling through days requires conscious effort on my part. I frequently remind myself now that I don’t have to schedule every minute of every hour with crossing off an item from my “To Do” list. When I taught, there never seemed to be enough time for everything. I’d head into work extra early, crank up the music, and speed through my morning routine. During my conference periods, grading took priority if I didn’t have any parent conferences scheduled. If I managed to whittle down the pile by one or two classes, reading a book or visiting with another teacher became my reward. For eight years, I never returned straight home after work. Once my mother moved to San Antonio, my after school hours started at her apartment—in the early years we’d visit, later on I’d do her cooking and cleaning; and after she moved to assisted living, I helped her get ready for bed. The second phase of my day started once I finally arrived home. Evening chores demanded attention. I’d learned early on that I resented spending entire weekends doing house work, so I divvied chores onto different evenings.

            Somewhere along the way, I learned how to move into warp drive whenever necessary. In the time it took David to do one chore, I’d run whither and thither accomplishing several things at once. Our joke became that I lived in “Fast Forward” mode while he enjoyed “Still Pause.” With retirement, I’ve found it difficult to move to a slower pace. I tumbled into bed the other morning at 3 AM, woke up the next morning and mentioned that I needed to start the wash. It took a moment for me to realize that I can actually put off doing the laundry for another day. I could blow it off for the entire week if I want!

            Thinking back, I’ve realized that much of my life, I’ve pushed that “Fast Forward” button and zipped so quickly through events that I’ve almost missed them. I spent so much of my youth focusing on the next challenge, or the next expectation, that I rarely paused to enjoy living. My future focused goal setting propelled and compelled me to prepare for tomorrow without allowing me to savor today. My advice to the generation behind me? Don’t rush living. Learn to pause and appreciate success before rushing onto the next quest.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Laundry Slave”

            Chores don’t bother me. I can resist the urge to vacuum whenever I see a tuft of cat hair by looking the other way.  Our dog, Koi is shedding right now, leaving little balls here-and-there, but I don’t need to haul out the vacuum cleaner because I simply scoop them up as I move room to room. Dusting? I blow it off! Literally. I have a glass topped console in my visual range. In the bedroom, as I type on my laptop, it lurks in my peripheral vision. Some mornings, when the sun shines through the window behind me, the dust on the console becomes alive, catching my attention in the light as it drifts on whispers. My willpower allows me to ignore the coating until my “Dusting Day.” And if, for some mysterious and unknown reason, the layer forms faster one week, I’ll blow it off as I walk by.  My solution dealing with dirty dishes is simple—eat out. And the dreaded grocery shopping (which becomes torture lately with increasing prices)? My solution is to eat out more!

            But laundry—laundry enslaves me. If I avoid the overflowing basket, piles of clothing form in other places in the house, breeding daily into hideous mountains. My weeks revolve around conquering these Everests. Monday’s I round-up stray piles and herd them to the laundry room, maneuvering them into piles by color or temperature needs. I haul out the hamper, adding to the mounds until each item’s categorized. Dumping in detergent and a pile of clothing into the machine doesn’t demand much effort or skill. Shifting load after load from washer to dryer requires little, too. I don’t mind folding the towels into their neat piles, hanging shirts or dresses, or even battling with the fitted sheets. For some reason, though, I dislike putting away clothes. I hate fighting for space in the closets because once everything’s clean, there’s less room. I battle to find a spot for socks and often scrunch shorts into an overflowing drawer. And then, within two days, I must repeat the entire process again. Laundry never totally disappears.  I know, however, that my laundry challenge of today doesn’t compare to the work I did as a child.

When I was a little girl, my aunt had a wringer washer down in her basement. I remember standing on a stool to submerge the clothes into the water, dragging the heavy wet cloth out and over the scrub board. My small hands ached when I finished scrubbing, plunging, scrubbing, plunging. To this day, I remember the fear that knotted my stomach as I’d timidly feed the clothing into the ringer. I had nightmares that my fingers would slip in with the fabric, the rollers grabbing me and pressing my flattened body out into the tub.

We’d toss the wet clothing into wicker laundry baskets and half-drag them up the stairs to the clothesline in the back yard. In the winter, the wind and cold would freeze my fingers as I’d clip up towels, sheets or even undies. On freezing days, the cloth would stiffen on the line before I’d finish my basket. In the summer, the scent of sunshine would permeate the fabrics. I loved pulling the warm clothes down. As an adult, I’ve occasionally taken a load hot from the dryer, thrown it on the bed, and wrapped myself within the soft, warm blankets; but it’s not the same as bedding baked by a Texas summer sun.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman