Memories of a vintage housekeeper

                           

My mother was a good homemaker. Some of my earliest memories were of her hanging out washing on her long line held up by props.  She used to boil up the copper and honestly, she had the whitest washing ever.  She used Rinso to wash the clothes and Lux Flakes for delicates.

When I was really young, we didn't have hot water on tap, so Mum would boil up the kettle, fill the sink- a single sink- and she used a metal cage thing with slivers of Velvet soap in it to soap up the water. Steel wool was the go for saucepans and the plates were washed with a foam rubber sponge.

Whilst she was washing the dishes, she would have the kettle on again to rinse them. Then we children would dry them for her. We had metered gas by way of a machine with a coin slot in it in the laundry. When the gas got low, Mum would put sixpence or a shilling in it...

We all bathed daily and our hot water was heated by way of a chip heater over the bath. I can still remember fighting over who was the child who was to be seated under it. It was scary to a kid's mind. In fact, I sometimes still dream of it- making sure the water tap was on before lighting the pilot light.

Pride of place in our living room was the clothes horse aka clothes airer. Mum was very careful to air all our clothes and she spent quite a lot of time arranging clothes on it daily.

Mum had it tough too because we four children were bed wetters. She worked very hard to keep up with it all. 

With all her neighbours finishing their chores by 9am, poor Mum was still washing the sheets. In fact, when they called on her for a cuppa, she would be flustered because she was inundated with work.

Mondays Mum "did through".  She vacuumed, dusted, cleaned the bath and toilet and ironed. She also polished the linoleum in the kitchen with her Hoover polisher. It was quite a chore, with applying polish, buffing it with the machine then redoing it with the lambswool pads.  Her Monday routine was as regular as the sun coming up in the morning. 

Everyday, she would also make the beds, do her washing, think about what was for tea that night, clean her kitchen and sweep the carpets with a carpet sweeper. Routines were written in stone.

Mum didn't have a car, in fact Dad didn't even have one. She would catch the bus into town and shop for groceries which were delivered to our house. No plastic bags: the bags were brown paper...

I remembered how hard she worked the day I held her gnarled hand as she passed. She certainly loved her home and family... 

I am so glad that God honours the hardworking woman. In writing her eulogy, I included that well-known and loved verse from Proverbs 31 and when it was read, everyone of us nodded our heads in agreement and acknowledgement. She was blessed.

Memories of a well kept house we were never ashamed to call home will always be dear, along with the memories of a tired but diligent homemaker and her wonderful serving of our family, and then her  second husband's. 

Yes, they're happy memories of a vintage housekeeper

© Glenys Robyn Hicks

Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.  Proverbs 31:28

The Queen of List Making

So I did it again! Instead of cleaning up after dinner, I went to bed with dishes in the sink. I hate when I do that!

I mean, with fibromyalgia robbing me of a good restful sleep, the mornings are hard enough to face. Having a dirty kitchen to wake up to is the pits!

Most would think that it's just laziness, but by the time I have cooked dinner my spoons are almost gone. Yes gone! I am so done in by the end of the day that even lifting my arms up to put my nightie over them creates pain.

Oh, yes, I make lists and read motivational blogs and You tubes, but to no avail. I am the Queen of List Making. Yet my limited spoons dictate that I do very little and I am left with ashes in my mouth.

I know I said before that I have been keeping busy and that's true, but I now have a rebound fibro flare and coupled with our autumn cold snap with rain, I am in a lot of pain.

You would think that I would have worked out this fibromyalgia lurk after twenty years. And for the most part although I hate it, I have learned to exist with fibro without feeling false guilt that leads to depression.

Most days I accept my disability, but deep inside is a perfectionist screaming to get out! On days like this, I try to nest and I overextend my limits. Hello, Fibro Flare!

I am grateful to my husband Chris. He is an mild mannered man who is happy with how I do manage to keep our nest. He, and most people who come to visit- well in better days obviously- are happy with the state of our home.

It must be that I am my own worst enemy: trying to do the work of a much younger healthier woman: everything in its place and a place for everything. But always straining, never achieving thanks to Fibromyalgia.  I need to accept what is and hang up my crown as the Queen of List Making.

 

Clean enough to be healthy

I have had a perfectionist streak all my life, but in the last twenty or so years of ill health, I have had to learn to be content with a more relaxed approach to my home making.

Where once I would be consumed with (false) guilt because I made our bed without four corner tucks or I had the blankets bumpy on the bed, I have had to make do with a more lenient approach. I simply don't have the energy to do four corner tucks. However, even the bed made up quickly and sporting a lump here or there, is extremely satisfying to me now that I've gotten past the perfectionism.

Mornings are no longer the time for house keeping. I have to fit in what I can over however long it takes me... and be content at the end of the day that I actually got it done...

I no longer allow cleaning schedules to dictate to me what I must achieve in any given day or time frame: it gets done more or less within the schedule but on a time of my choosing. It's the only way a Sacrificial Home Keeper can manage..

In saying that I am no longer a perfectionist, I still like to live in a clean home. For me, there are basic things that are not negotiable. I cannot live my life happily unless these things are clean:

I must be clean.

My clothes must be clean.

My bed must be fresh and clean.

My dishes and cooking utensils must be clean.

I can't stand smelly toilets and these and my bathroom must be clean.

These days I need help to maintain this list of essentials.  I do not go into a spin if a fly has died on my window ledge or there is some dust on my furniture. I have learned to accept white cat fur as a part of being a mother to a white cat. The floors can be in need of a vacuum, but I now have Roombas to do them.  It has been years since I ironed something that only I will see... and I learned years ago that one can sleep on unironed pillowcases... it can be done!

I find cooking, shopping, menu and social planning, washing and folding of clothes, managing finances and being a loving wife to my husband is enough for me to cope with. I know from experience over the years that by not pacing myself, I will crash and burn and my recovery time will need more than an occasional nana nap...

Accepting our limitations is an important part of staying calm in a world that has become anything but. And for most of us Sacrificial Home Keepers, our world is our home. 

One final thought that helped me was remembering what our family doctor once said to me when my children were young: "A home should be clean enough to be healthy, but untidy enough to be happy!"  I am trusting that I have at last put his advice into action.

© Glenys Robyn Hicks

God is my strength and power: and he maketh my way perfect. 2 Samuel 22:33

Memories of Mum's housekeeping

My mother was a good homemaker. Some of my earliest memories were of her hanging out washing on her long line held up by props.  She used to boil up the copper and honestly, she had the whitest washing ever.  She used Rinso to wash the clothes and Lux Flakes for delicates.

When I was really young, we didn't have hot water on tap, so Mum would boil up the kettle, fill the sink- a single sink- and she used a metal cage thing with slivers of Velvet soap in it to soap up the water. Steel wool was the go for saucepans and the plates were washed with a foam rubber sponge.

Whilst she was washing the dishes, she would have the kettle on again to rinse them. Then we children would dry them for her. We had metered gas by way of a machine with a coin slot in it in the laundry. When the gas got low, Mum would put sixpence or a shilling in it...

We all bathed daily and our hot water was heated by way of a chip heater over the bath. I can still remember fighting over who was the child who was to be seated under it. It was scary to a kid's mind. In fact, I sometimes still dream of it- making sure the water tap was on before lighting the pilot light.

Pride of place in our living room was the clothes horse aka clothes airer. Mum was very careful to air all our clothes and she spent quite a lot of time arranging clothes on it daily.

Mum had it tough too because we four children were bed wetters. She worked very hard to keep up with it all. 

With all her neighbours finishing their chores by 9am, poor Mum was still washing the sheets. In fact, when they called on her for a cuppa, she would be flustered because she was inundated with work.

Mondays Mum "did through".  She vacuumed, dusted, cleaned the bath and toilet and ironed. She also polished the linoleum in the kitchen with her Hoover polisher. It was quite a chore, with applying polish, buffing it with the machine then redoing it with the lambswool pads.  Her Monday routine was as regular as the sun coming up in the morning. 

Everyday, she would also make the beds, do her washing, think about what was for tea that night, clean her kitchen and sweep the carpets with a carpet sweeper. Routines were written in stone.

Mum didn't have a car, in fact Dad didn't even have one. She would catch the bus into town and shop for groceries which were delivered to our house. No plastic bags: the bags were brown paper...

I remembered how hard she worked the day I held her gnarled hand as she passed. She certainly loved her home and family... 

I am so glad that God honours the hardworking woman. In writing her eulogy, I included that well-known and loved verse from Proverbs 31 and when it was read, everyone of us nodded our heads in agreement and acknowledgement. She was blessed.

Memories of a well kept house we were never ashamed to call home will always be dear, along with the memories of a tired but diligent homemaker and her wonderful serving of our family, and then her  second husband's.

© Glenys Robyn Hicks

Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.  Proverbs 31:28

Get a real job!

Recently, someone near to me stated that she would never marry a mechanic. Mainly because of the grease on clothes and hands, but privately, I think it goes deeper. The sense that a man who works in a trade such as a mechanic, doesn't have a "real" job as does an accountant or doctor, a form of snobbishness if you will.. I felt annoyed with her comment and I had to mull it over. After all, often it is through moments like those that one learns so much about oneself...

My deceased first husband worked as a shift worker, often coming home with extremely dirty hands. Sometimes it was fibreglass splinters that stuck in his hands forming puss sores as they worked their way out of his skin. Sticking to his clothes and making laundering them a nightmare. Other times it was grease from repairing his concrete pump and later on concrete that even made it under his cuticles as he pumped the said concrete every day... pumping 6 days a week, repairing and maintaining said pump on Sunday.

My Chris has now retired but in his day, his hands have been hardworking and dirty as well. He was a mechanic working on road side assist. Another shift worker. And  I recall him telling me how his ex-wife would yell at him because of his dirty, greasy hands. Hands that kept her home so that she could look after their children...yet hands that in her sight, might just as well have been kept in his pockets!

Chris's son was also working as a roadside assist mechanic and his mother told him to give it up and get a "real" job. He, like his father, felt emasculated... depressed and a failure!

To be honest, I smarted at the inference that hard working men who get their hands dirty are not really working hard enough. I abhor the fact that these men will never earn enough or work hard enough to satisfy these women. Also, I feel the sting of rejection for them and the loss of respect. I at least know why her comment aggrieved me so much!

The Word says that a man is to look after his family and if he doesn't provide for them, he is worse than an unbeliever. It doesn't say that he is to strive to find his niche in employment or a career for which he is not suited or cannot attain. All honest work is honourable! Greasy hands are honourable as well, for they show a heart that is willing to toil and provide.

If one follows these women's erroneous thoughts, one has to conclude that Jesus Himself should have gotten a "real" job.... after all, He must have had calloused dirty hands in His work as a carpenter. But come to think of it, I don't think even His labours would have satisfied these women of lofty ideals!  

 © Glenys Robyn Hicks 

But if anyone does not provide for his own, and especially for those of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever. 1 Timothy 5:8