As a kid, I hated washing the dishes. As I recall, the chore was assigned a week at a time, except for the weeks when my sister developed an odd case of eczema on her forearms. The doctor advised she keep those arms clean and dry, and I saw the hand-writing on the wall…
Dishwashers weren’t what they are now. There was no pot-scrubber feature, or handy disposal to get rid of all the “baked-on residue”. And, my mother was a real stickler about rinsing. Did I say rinsing? She called it rinsing, I called it washing. It wasn’t a simple matter of holding the dish under running water. My mother’s idea of rinsing involved steel-wool and plenty of elbow grease before sliding the dish between the guides. Even as I child, I thought this ritual cumbersome, inefficient, and a serious waste of time better spent riding my bicycle/Dodge Rambler, or talking on the telephone.
In high-school, my American History teacher directed us to write a personalized version of the Declaration of Independence. Before handing mine back, she had drawn a large, red “A” just above the title “My Declaration of Independence from Dishwashing”. Later that night, I offered the paper over my father’s full belly, just as my mother’s voice called from the adjoining room, “Stacye! Dishes!”.
My first home away from home was a charming, though antiquated, farmhouse on the outskirts of town. There was no dishwasher, which given my experience, only simplified the process. I washed, and God dried.
I moved, later, into several different homes with working dishwashers that I never used. I proved to be a very capable dishwasher, and as my children grew, I assigned the chore, a week at a time. They washed, and God dried, while I carried a basket of laundry outside to hang in the sun.
It wasn’t until my children were old enough to visit their friend’s homes that they began to question our routine.
“Mom, we have a dishwasher. Why don’t we use it?”
Stretching both arms out in front of me, I answered with a smile.
“Because I have a dishwasher, and now I have three more!” I finished by running one hand through my child’s disheveled hair, only slightly muffling the answering groan.
Ten years ago, I met and married a man who came with a built-in daughter and roommate, in addition to the usual appliances. The merging of our two families created a dish-dirtying machine that overwhelmed my shiny, chrome double sink. The age of mechanization began, and might have continued had it not been for financial doom and gloom.
Recent pay cuts, worthless retirement accounts, and media driven panic encouraged me to look at ways to reduce my expenses. I cancelled my mail-order DVD account, informed my son that dinner out would henceforth be viewed as a “treat”, and decided to delay buying the pair of noise-cancelling headphones I’d been eyeing. I arranged to have a clothesline strung between two immense, sturdy, southern pines, and declared the dishwasher off limits.
Monday, for the first time in over ten years, I washed our dishes by hand. It didn’t take long to wash a couple of plates, a few glasses, two coffee mugs, and several pieces of cutlery. It took even less time for me to realize why I had clung to this routine for so long.
Drinking glasses danced amidst soap suds, colliding with an occasional gentle clink, and causing me to notice that there was no other sound to interrupt my thoughts. The simple act of running a sinkful of dishwater had cleared the room of those fearful of being called upon to dry, leaving me free to consider our dinner conversation, to mull over my day, and to plan for the next.
Humming tunelessly, I dragged the sudsy dishcloth over the face of a plate, appreciating the sense of accomplishment and purpose inherent in so simple a task. I placed the steaming dish into the dish rack I’d kept in case of emergency, and left the drying to God.
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 
