You mean you don’t have a dishwasher? You actually wash them all by hand? (Me? No. But my Mom does) This was a common question back in the day growing up as a child in Sleepy Eye. But we did have a dishwasher in our house. It was mustard yellow and built into the counter-top but I don’t have one memory of it being used. Mom would always say “Oh yeah that thing broke right away and we just never fixed it.” We had a new “dish washer” alright, it came with a face and 2 working hands. This very scenario could easily be the definition of the mind of my Mother. Why pay money to fix something when there is a sink with running water, bottle of soap, and a drawer full of cloths and towels? She made do with what she had. Always did. There would be duct taped dressed spatulas. Tape wrapped remote controls. Drawers that required a crafty technique upon opening lest they unhinge and drop off the hinge. Tiny chips in tiles that had no intentions of being repaired. The heat worked, there was wood for the fire, the clothes were clean, and there was always food on the table. She was a simple woman who loved the thrifty way of life and stretching a dollar as far as she could. But when I think of memories with my lovely Mom in that house it was the dish-washing thing that sticks out a lot in my mind....
I think back to all the years growing up in that house and how often I saw the back of her head at the sink. A big puffy brown head of hair scrubbing up dishes. Drying each one by hand with the embroidered white towels she sewed herself. She would scrub and scrub at the greased on remains of casseroles and lasagnas and never once complain about it. I never once in my life saw a dirty dish in the sink or on the counter. She would immediately wash, dry, and put away. The counter tops were clean and not a crumb could be spotted on the floor. She swept the floor like she washed dishes. Immediately. Did she love it? A part of me thinks she found pride in being tidy, being a good housewife. Was that her passion?
These are the things that kill me. The things I’ll always wonder about her. Did she have any dreams? Aspirations? Untapped desires? Or was her life as a housewife all she needed? What did she think about while scrubbing those pans?
I feel her presence behind my back when I’m at the sink washing my own dishes, which I have only begun doing with tenderness since she died. When she was alive I used my dishwasher 99% of the time. When I miss her, I fill up the sink. I feel a connection to her when I have my hands in the hot water and I know she’s looking over my shoulder when I cook and bake, as the kitchen is her domain. Her reign.
When I am at the sink with the warm sudsy water gliding over my fingers and I look down at my hands I see “her” hands. I feel like a piece of her enters me. Like I become her. I connect to her, feel her thoughts, smell her hair. It’s that chill you get under your skin where your hair lifts and your back tingles up. I bet she loves to see me washing dishes with my hands, I can feel her love envelope me when I’m at the sink. Sometimes I get this calm serene feeling. Like a meditative focus on each dish. Each glass, each pan, calms my mind in a unique way. Maybe that’s why she liked doing the dishes? Or perhaps she liked the heater kicking on by her feet (I love that part). It was a time to be alone with your thoughts, not face anyone, just focus on the swishing warmth of water on your skin and the task of cleaning dishes. I wonder how many times she cried while doing dishes, knowing no one would see it. Does she see me when I cry?
It does something to your mind when you’re standing there washing dishes. It calms you. It takes your thoughts away. I dream a little. I remember. I cry. I feel a longing to watch my Mom wash dishes one more time. To thank her for doing so because I never did that. Not once. These are the tears that I shed, the drops of silly little things you never got to say. Oh by the way Mom, thanks for washing my cereal bowl. Those words never came out. I never thought I’d miss the things I miss. Sometimes I think of her taking the broom out of the closet and sweeping the kitchen floor and it makes me want to bawl my eyes out. The things I long to see again are the simple ones. Her joy in doing the little things was when she was the most content.
So this whole dish-washing thing? It reminds me that I am a piece of her, I have a commonality with her, I am my mother’s daughter with the same hands, the same soft heart, and the same blood. Dish washing. It cleanses more than dishes. To me it’s a therapeutic work of art, helping to cleanse my mind and wipe away the sorrow that is imbedded in my heart while reuniting memories of the simple sweetness of my Mom.
And I will always wonder how in the hell she got those black stains off the bottoms of pans! I may have her hands, but I sure as hell don’t have her patience. She would scrub a pan 1000 times over until it sparkled. Me? I’d just go buy a new pan. And I know she’d shake her head at this and say “Oh Melanie....” which makes me miss her even more.... and giggle at the same time.
