Washing dishes. The bane of my life growing up.
Little did I know that, even as I was slaving over a sink full of suds in the forties, a woman named Josephine Garis Cochrane had already invented the appliance that would set me free. Before I was born, Ms Cochrane received an award for her invention at the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago. The company she founded to market the dishwasher to hotels, restaurants and other commercial groups was purchased in the 1920's by the Hobart Corporation. Still the world’s premier commercial food equipment and service provider for the foodservice and food retail industries, Hobart introduced dishwashers under the name "Kitchen Aid" in 1949.
Although I’ve had an automatic dishwasher for years, I still prefer to wash things I consider too delicate for the heat. Recently, up to my wrists in suds, my thoughts went back to those years before I knew I’d some day be freed from dishwashing slavery.
Every plate, glass, pot, pan and piece of silverware had to be washed, of course. With the limited counter space of our small kitchen, they had to be dried and put away, too. I clearly pictured a young me sixty years ago standing over our sink with no love in my heart. I hated washing the dishes. But those moments weren’t wasted. Everything I washed took on personalities, and in my make-believe world, they spoke to me. As my brother grew older, I could entice him to dry for me if I’d tell him a story. Those experiences gave birth and wings to my writing.
Although small, our kitchen was large enough for the round oak table I use today. I remember the room as warm and cozy, smelling of made-from-scratch bread or cookies and suppers of fresh-from-the-garden vegetables. My dad would pull the head off a chicken, pluck it then Mother would fry it up. Cream gravy and fried chicken. Nothing better.
I smiled as I recalled my little brother, a curly-haired kid seven years younger than I, usually in the middle of the floor pushing a toy car or truck and making realistic engine noises. My mother, a stay-at-home mom who sewed better than any department store seamstress, made most of my clothes. Always the life of every party, and the first one to help a friend in need.
My dad, a hardworking man with a wry sense of humor and an excellent work ethic he instilled in his children. Him, peeling an orange and sharing it with all of us as we listened to the radio in the evenings. Ours was a home filled with love. We moved from that little house when I graduated from high school and had a larger home built. Although the kitchen was bigger, it was never as warm as the other one.
I finished washing the dishes and dried my hands, but the memories kept coming. Memories of my parents as they aged; my dad lying in the hospital the day before he died and talking to me about how important it was to know the Lord. A quiet man, not one to share a lot from his heart, it was the first time he had spoken to me of something this personal. My mother, growing older and because of advancing dementia, finally having to live her last few years in a nursing home. I watched the vibrant, intelligent woman fade into someone she would never have wanted to become.
My brother’s not the little curly-headed kid any more. He’s a big man and no longer has any hair. Seven hundred miles separate us, but the telephone and computer keep us close. We see each other about once a year, and we always find ourselves talking about the past and about our parents. When we do, they are back in my mind as they were in that small kitchen.
Memories—bittersweet.
Having to wash the dishes was a thorn in my side all those years ago. As I look back on it today, it pales in comparison to the whole of life’s design. My family was together. We were healthy and strong. We had all of life ahead of us; a life that has brought joys we could never have imagined.
Robert Brault said, “Enjoy the little things for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”
He got that right.
--Barbara Leachman