My Mother trained me young...........to keep a clean, organized and picked up house. She always worked outside the home but you could, as the old saying goes, "eat off her floors." She was a perfectionist. A hard worker, competent in everything she put her hand to. Sunday was our cleaning day. It was often the only day off from her job. She didn't rest, relax or crawl under the covers recovering from an exhausting week. She was up with the sun, the larks, or whatever birds were singing in the garden at that time of year, in her cleaning clothes, sometimes her hair tied in a scarf, the usual headgear in the 1950's prior to rollers, hooded hairdryers, blow dryers and curling irons. Back then facilities in the middle class English home was usually one bathroom with a bathtub, no shower for a quick wash, shampoo and rinse. I recall washing my hair under the taps in the kitchen sink, not easy or comfortable. Many years ago on my first visit to Florence, Italy, we stayed in a hotel that was at one time a palace. We had a suite which had only a deep tub. I recalled my childhood whilst kneeling on the hard, cold marble floor with my head under a conglomerate of gold-plated faucets while Bob assisted in rinsing off shampoo and conditioner. I complained, he laughed. Somehow I lived through it wondering why a Medici Palace in a piazza, steps away from the River Arno, couldn't be modernized. A building, historic, patinated, antiqued and gorgeous, and me, spoiled by all the mod cons of America. I soon learned of Italian history and beauty, and made a vow to return as an Italian in a future life!
My childhood Sunday mornings also became a cleaning day. . . . . .until my brother came along when I was eight. Once he was a toddler my mother decided Sunday morning cleaning was easier for her if I took him to the park for a few hours. I don't recall complaining. Pushing swings and roundabouts was more fun than vacuuming and polishing furniture.
With the winter months approaching 'housework' becomes annoying. Burning wood on the hearth is wonderful and warming, keeping up with the dust it makes is a chore. Gardening is comfortable at last, cooler days and no mosquitoes, but we have no mud room in this small house so garden debris stuck to footwear results in gritty floors requiring extra cleaning. As Christmas approaches an assortment of live greenery, berries and such make their way to the mantel, tops of armoires, stairwell etc. Things are dropped, roll under furniture, disintegrate as the weeks pass by.........and all cause more dust. Reminders of those childhood days of vacuuming, dusting and polishing come to mind, sadly the bending and kneeling required to do a bang up job is not so easy now. So, we do what we can, promising to declutter, downsize, perhaps hire a cleaner, anything to 'make life easier' and take away some of the stress of keeping house more perfect. Fewer years on our calendar mean we need time to do exciting things while we can.
By the way, did you know dust is invisible to most grown men . . . . . . . .and small birds, such as my wren, are extremely 'house proud', just as my dear mother was.
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