An overflowing sinkful of dishes greeted me today, the morning-after result of a big family dinner. Once upon a time that was a regular occurrence: three growing boys and a husband all averse to washing a dish, along with frequent large gatherings that dirtied every single utensil, pot, pan, and glass in the kitchen. Dishes were what I did.

A worn place on the fly of all my blue jeans is testament to the hours I spend standing up against that slate sink. Wally was the one who pointed it out, and then we figured out it was from the edge of the sink. 

By the way, please don’t remind me that males are equally capable of doing the clean-up (or the cooking for that matter); I’m not proud of how easily I capitulated to the female-as-domestic-servant role in my marriage. And in the process, brought up sons under that same regime. Fortunately, thanks to their 21st century wives, our progeny, Wally’s and mine, have evolved beyond the domestic arrangement we modeled.

In fairness, I was perfectly content to be a stay-at-home and all that that decision implied. Determined to forge a life quite different from my mother’s suburban one, I branched out into all sorts of exotic pursuits: baking bread, grinding the flour for that bread, butchering pigs and chickens, making butter. Growing and preserving almost all the food we ate  – canning, freezing, drying everything. Making extra work for myself to justify that stay-at-home label.

Incidentally, my mother, appalled at the life I’d forged for myself, made me promise not to bury her here.

No dishwashing machine for me. In fact, for a number of years the only hot water we had was from the wood-stove-heated tank in the upstairs ell, gravity-fed to the huge, slate sink in the kitchen.

Oh, and did I mention who sawed, chopped, and carried in all the wood it took to heat this old place? That would be Wally. And, come to think of it, those three boys carried in uncounted cords of wood every winter morning before school.

Today it’s mainly the upstairs family doing the wood – stacking, carrying it in, filling the woodbox.

Don’t let me get away with telling the story as if I did all the hard work.

Hot water comes via the furnace in the cellar now, I wouldn’t dream of grinding flour, and our last milk cow left the premises in 1999. But I still stand at the slate sink to wash the dishes.

Except mostly the dishes are only mine. There’s a big difference between cooking for a family and even for just a couple. And when the couple becomes only one, meals shrink dramatically. Everything cooks in one little skillet, a tiny cast iron frying pan, barely big enough for a single fried egg, gets served on one plate and with one fork.

And is eaten in front of the evening news in “my” chair. Don’t most couples have side-by-side chairs? Mine’s the one with the knitting basket next to it, his is the one with the dog in it.

But back to washing dishes for a crowd. Sure, the guests often offer to do them, but honestly, I find that lately I rather like it. That wasn’t the case back in the day. Like so many aspects of a marriage, of a job, of daily life in general, things could get pretty boring. Downright stultifying.

That sinkful of dishes, dried on egg yolk, greasy pans, last night’s gravy on the plates; I’d want to walk away from it all. In the back of my mind was the friend who returned from a week-end away at a business conference and drove right by her house. Couldn’t bear the thought of going in the door and back to her life. To a husband and a couple of little kids. She drove around for an hour, she told me, before she plucked up the courage to face them again.

But then the morning would come, and maybe the sun was out that day or I heard a chickadee’s spring song, and suddenly everything felt right again. This was the life I wanted.

The quiet that comes with old age creeps up slowly; this stillness has me noticing more. The constant demands of family life, the crowded calendar, the impulse or necessity to stay busy has evaporated. We’re left with ourselves.

So, on a Sunday morning that promises to be sunny (but turns out not to be – this is February after all), hands working in the hot, soapy water, I drift in and out of memory.

Here are the wooden salad tossers Ross and MaryLou brought us from New Zealand long, long ago.

And be careful! That’s Nanny’s crystal goblet that miraculously survived numerous moves from her Chicago southside apartment to my Maine farmhouse.

And here’s the cylindrical wine glass from Crate and Barrel, the original C&B full of quirky imports, the lone survivor of our wedding set.

We paid $2 for this iron kettle at a yard sale in Liberty. Should have left it soaking overnight as I scrape out the dried-on spaghetti.

Luckily the 10” pie plate hadn’t found its way out to the free pile a few years ago when I ruthlessly purged my cupboards. It was just right for last night’s enormous lemon meringue. Chipped and stained, I handle it gently.

I think about Peggy as she pitched in to help with the dishes after one long ago supper. Plunging her aching, rheumatic hands into the hot, soapy water, she smiled in relief. “This feels really good!”

Nothing monumental about an hour at the sink on a winter’s morning. I think they call it “being in the moment”, but more often than not the moment is from long ago.

Valentine’s Day and the LHS on TV

Watch Channel 5 (WABI) 6 p.m. news on Monday for a special Valentine’s Day story, featuring the LHS’ search for a Mystery Man!

Town

The State of Maine Property Tax Deferral Program is for those 65 or over or for the disabled and who are having trouble paying their property taxes.

Over the week-end as the surface of the ice rink that’s my driveway melted, leaving a treacherous slick of water-over-ice between the front door and the outside world. Ice grippers are cumbersome to put on and you’ll ruin your floors if you wear them indoors. You can get sand at the town lot on Hope Road (235) just past the Town Office. The sign says “Two five-gallon buckets per family” – not sure if that’s per year or per ice event. You’re supposed to notify the Town Office if you’re getting sand, but I came on a Saturday so skipped that step. Hope that was OK. I brought one bucket and several smaller buckets and bowls, filled up the 5-gallon on the tailgate of my truck – no way could I lift it – and then filled the others.

Back home, tossing the sandy gravely stuff ahead of me felt powerful as I strode all over the place, making nice, gritty paths to the egg door, to the mailbox, the cars, the henhouse. After this morning’s snow flurry all was white again and an egg customer cautioned me that snow on top of ice was treacherous. GRRRRR!

Good thing I remember where my paths are…

School

Covid cases are being posted weekly on the school’s newsletter, the Lynx .

 Last week’s cases: K-2: 0 cases, 3-5: 2, cases, 6-8: 2 cases

The School Committee meets Monday, Feb. 14, 6 p.m. at the school. Stop by early, at 5:30 for a coffee chat with two board members, and stay for the meeting if you wish.

Winter vacation begins Monday, Feb. 21 with possible early dismissal (11:30) on Friday the 18th, pending approval at this week’s School Committee meeting.

Condolences

Mary Pratt’s many friends and Coleman Pond neighbors were sad to hear of her passing last week, just two years after her husband, Mac.

Joan Masalin Ratliff passed away last month. She and I were great friends, working at the Historical Society. Joan loved sharing stories about her Finnish heritage and her childhood growing up in Lincolnville.