Our work ethic is something that carries us through from adolescence to our adulthood. How we handle our obligations has been planted in us when we were old enough to learn that what was worth having, was worth working for.
“HOW DO YOU VIEW your life? – POETIC BLOOMINGS MEMOIR PROJECT
Part 12: It’s a Chore – Did you have chores growing up? Did you have a favorite? Did you hate doing them? What is a chore for you now? How has it prepared you for handling things now? Write about it.
MARIE ELENA’S MISSION:
TAKE IRONING
Why is it that everything Mom did
Looked like so much fun?
Washing dishes, stripping wallpaper,
Scrubbing floors, hosing down the house –
She made it all look delightful.
Take ironing.
I clearly recall the sound
Of Mom’s clothes sprinkler,
As she shook it like a salt shaker,
Sprinkling water on the clothes
Before pressing them.
What fun!
Oh, the excitement the day she entrusted me
With ironing Dad’s handkerchiefs.
Oh, the letdown when the novelty wore off,
And “fun” transitioned to “chore.”
Take ironing.
Please.
Copyright © Marie Elena Good – 2012
WALT’S WORK:
WHOSE TURN IS IT?
The kitchen was a ghost town
whenever suppertime came.
The calendar upon the wall
emblazoned with each name.
All the siblings had a chance
to lend a hand in kind.
To think that they would follow through,
was surely out of mind.
The first name was the set-up man,
to set the places right.
The second name was the “washer,”
(this one stayed out of sight).
The third would wipe and put away
the dishes from that night.
I made my bones by being home,
an enterprising lad, who traded on
their malcontent (I didn’t think it bad)
to offer to take someone’s turn,
of course there was a “fee,” but they
were glad to give what they had
to lay their burden on me. I made
a fortune (for a kid), which to me was fine.
When Mom would ask, “Whose turn is it?”
I always answered, “MINE!”
Copyright © Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Hi, all! My poem was written a couple of weeks ago, but it really fits this prompt. It talks about my favorite chore from when I was a little girl – cherry picking. It was tangentially inspired by Ezra Pound’s superb poem, “A Girl” and it is dedicated to my grandmother – who was, after all, the rightful owner of the cherry trees mentioned here 🙂
Imago
Although the cherry trees themselves
have long been retired into the earth,
time still mirrors their likenesses
as they were, not yet lacquered with
the mutable, craftable, carvable polish of a sap
which shall be left behind
after this imago mundi has completely slipped past our grasps.
Young time keeps its taste rollicking ’round the mouth,
raising each bud of the tongue from its slumber,
each casting out a soap bubble ensnaring within it
stolen fragments like jewels with moments at their core.
This recently-departed present had surprised us
under the roof of a single sky,
the enameled bowls at our feet holding our gathered cherries in queue
with the pride of ancient treasure chests
with their mouths wrenched open,
spilling a thousand looted garnets into display.
Our female fingers worked in spindly kinship
as we disemboweled the cherries of their pits,
enucleating the garnets of their blunt cores
and appropriating the fleshy incarnations of their shine.
As the night was released from behind the sky,
sap ascended our arms, branches were tossed around the table
until foliage obscured the lines between us
and a rowdy forest of cherry trees rose around our table,
tossing conversation like deep red soap bubbles weaving between us,
the million voices of our taste buds weaving the lines
of the same tapestry in union.
Today, there are only soap bubbles of us
carving out the roots of our cherry trees;
they coast on a streak above the ocean
and burst, as the sap has long descended our arms
and returned whence it came from.
© Andra-Teodora Negroiu, 2012
OM Goodness… this is Beautiful, Andra!!!
I agree with Hen. Beautiful Andra. I love the lines:
“with the pride of ancient treasure chests
with their mouths wrenched open,
spilling a thousand looted garnets into display.”
My favorite lines as well. Lovely poem.
You must be an expert at making cherry pies! What else did you make?
Meg, I can still see my Mom standing there, in the evening, ironing and starching while the musical entertainment show, Hullabaloo, sang and danced on the screen 🙂 ; Walt, you so reminded me of my older brother — very resourceful– 🙂 !
Yes, I agree with Henrietta – well done, very visual.
“…Cleanliness is next to Godliness…”
Cleaning calms me… it grounds
me.
I like to say: “Sometimes…
don’t you just wanna
wash the dishes…?”
(Most people look at me
strangely and say “NO!”)
–Putting things in order,
dusting them off and
placing them in their
proper place…
…Ahh… a work
of art.
🙂
{Now, wheeling that big, ‘ol heavy garbage can out to the curb… well, That is drudgery!}
I agree with the result, but still hate the actual chore! Kudos.
:)! Thank you, Linda!
Putting the house or the dishes or a single closet or drawer in order is like ordering my whole life…almost. I get what you’re saying, Hen. I’m one too. (And sometimes the best you can do is just wash the dishes).
YES!!! Exactly!!! :D!!
“…Cleanliness is next to Godliness…”
Oops, I think I missed learning that one in my Chore education! 🙂
… hee, hee …
Indoor/Outdoor Chores
Cooking
Cleaning
Scrubbing
Ironing
Hanging clothes on racks indoors
Those were chores I hated.
But planting
Picking
Mowing
Raking
Hanging clothes on lines outdoors
Those were chores I liked.
🙂 !
That’s why my husband will just do all the outdoor work! I see it now. Thanks, Connie!
I am with you on this one. Love the smell of fresh mowed grass, and can hand weed a mile-a-minute
Connie, If you’d rearranged a line or two, you might have had an unintended acrostic!
The Dishes
With seven people, it seemed the job was never done.
There is just no way to make dish washing fun.
Because I was the oldest I did it every day.
It seemed that I would never get them put away.
I finally went to college, then lived on my own.
The hatred pf the dishes never was outgrown.
When I got married we took an unusual vow.
Wherever we lived, there would be a dishwasher now.
For 35 years it has been just the thing.
For my marriage, its more important than the ring!
LOL!
Love it!
One of those inside chores I allow (whole heartedly) my hubby to do.
chuckling!
Good one!
[…] Poetic Bloomings IT’S A CHORE! – PROMPT #77 […]
Many Hands…(a haibun)
We were always told by my father that this ancient Chinese proverb holds much truth and I tend to agree now and back then I would cringe for it was repeated so frequently and always when there were tasks that were monumental in accomplishing, (or so it seemed to me back then)- the raking of our huge yard, or the stacking of cords of wood, or the time the car broke down and we walked eight miles to get home rather than stopping at a neighborhood house to arrange a ride. The five of us trudged in the full moon-lit night…our breaths crystallizing on the wintry air…yes, somehow the proverb applied then too: “Many hands make light work,” and really I tend to agree and honestly it is true that the more we’re each willing put forth our most positive attitudes and energies the better the outcome and perhaps more easily achieved. And it was in these times that I gained perspective and a love and respect for nature, too.
Lend a hand happily,
stand with family
sure up integrity.
~
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2012
~
So true Hannah. Both a great proverb and a great poem.
Yesss!!
Thank you Linda and Hen!
Well said, great character building from your dad.
I agree…it’s stuck with me so it was effective…thank you for reading Marjory!
Love this, Hannah!
Thank you so much Sarah!
Marie!!! Your’s made me laugh right out loud…I remember thinking the same thing and I don’t iron now either…unless I have to!
Walt the go-to guy…I’m not surprised!!
Great writing and prompting you two!!
I asked my daughter if she thought she needed an iron for college and her response was, “Do YOU have one?”
Ha, ha, ha…
Sounds like something my son would ask me!
DUSTING
It must have been the smell;
the spray of fresh lemony polish
on furniture, a shining sheen,
my reflection looking back at me
as I rubbed circles on cherry wood
and dreamed of days when I’d be seen.
Oh, Laurie… you break my heart!
What a tenderly evocative poem, Laurie! Lovely.
“Day dreaming”? or wishful thinking? I hope the dreams came true
Laurie…my sentiments exactly! My poem hints at the same (though not as telling. Lovely!
This is so well done, Laurie!!
Oh, Laurie, I love the ending line. I was right there with you, polishing the furniture and then SMACK. Great job.
Dust, Dishes and Deliverance
Dusting –
each item had a story
or perhaps a brief pause in dusting occurred
as a new story was created and performed before moving on.
Dishes –
water full of submarines
and sea creatures from the depths
and bubbles that were blown willy nilly,
although drying was never as much fun
the task did not put me into fits of despair – yet.
Deliverance –
dusting and dishes lost their charms
with every foothold into puberty –
avoidance, homework, or the ever popular “I forgot” syndrome
kept me from doing the dirty deeds –
College was a blessing, to both my mother and I.
She was delivered from arguments regarding my faulty memory
and I … I was just plain delivered.
Ha, ha, ha…. Great one! :D!
How attitudes do ‘grow’ with us. ! 🙂
Very cute! 😃😃
Love this!
OK, gang, sorry this is so long. It hit me where I live.
For the Love of Labor
We were born to work.
Our only reason for existing,
beyond Mama’s need to love,
was to plant, tend, and harvest,
feed, milk, brush, and shepherd,
clean, wash, cook, and mend.
We complained of it up one row
and down another, hurling “slave”
about as if we understood it.
We didn’t factor in meals, beds,
roofs, clothes, whatnots of existence,
as our pay. It was a family thing.
Coming in dusty from the fields,
we sponged off and made lunch,
hoping for an hour to read or play,
when Mama would say, “Why don’t
we string these beans while we rest?”
I wanted to shriek, “Because we’re resting!”
Workaholism is inherited; this I know.
We didn’t call these labors chores.
This was work, pure and simple, grown-up,
muscle aching, back-breaking work.
Chores we did on Saturdays: lawn mowing,
bed changing, dusting, vacuuming,
churning butter, canning or preserving,
washing, flower arranging for Sunday.
We bartered jobs like women at a market
trading beans for shiny buttons. I hated
dusting then and now, but loved to churn
butter, the heavy cream slogging along
like a plow horse in a churn passed along
for generations, rotary wooden and pot-bellied.
I liked the rhythm of paddles hitting the liquid,
feeling the mixture thicken, and finally the bits
of butter plopping on each arm-aching turn.
I loved packing the butter into wooden molds,
a bunch of violets in one, a star and moon in the other,
turning out the fat cakes of gold like bricks of bullion.
I liked to spread the leftover bits on bread
with honey and reward myself for a good job.
Now, cow- and churn-less, I love the memory.
I’ve handled some slippery situations
since my butter days, been forced to wait
for plots to thicken, for the pieces
to come together in one golden clump,
for designs to be molded decoratively
across the tops of my best efforts.
I’ve worked nearly every day of my life,
doing one thing or another, more or less
pleasing, more or less successfully,
and find that I cannot NOT work.
My glass of wine has a dulcimer on my lap,
a dishwasher or washing machine in the background.
Sitting to read, I flank my chair with papers
to grade, calls to make, the words
punctuated with beeps from the oven.
I have raised multi-tasking to a spiritual level,
and still I cannot get everything done.
It helps that I learned early to find the fun in the job
or be miserable, to look at what’s at my feet,
among the clouds, or carried on a breeze.
I’ve learned that work gives life meaning,
purpose, power, dignity, and joy,
But what I’ve learned
more than anything else is
We are born to work.
Outstanding, Jane!! What I learned over the years is that Some People, don’t count Housework- indoors/outdoors/Family Nurturing- as real work….
I Loved your “butter (better) days”!!! :)!!
🙂
I can taste that butter, Jane. Wonderful poem.
LOL! I’m happy to report I no longer remember where my iron is. 🙂
A woman who’s dragging a cart
Has some errands to run. Where to start?
The cleaners and grocer —
Too bad they’re not closer.
How she longs to stay home and make art.
Hee, hee…
Yes, I am with you on that one.
Oh Marie! Ironing is the bane of my existence! With ten people to iron for, it’s definitely a huge task. And I iron well so my mom has me do a lot of it.*sigh*😉 I was gonna write about ironing, but maybe I’ll just think if something else.
I used to argue to my mother that body heat would take out all the wrinkles in my clothes. She never bought it. Wrinkled clothes have given way to wrinkled body. I should have told her wrinkles were nature’s way of relaxing us 😉
! 🙂 :D!!
Everything in my house goes into the washer and dryer, and if it doesn’t survive or comes out wrinkled, it only is worn once and passed on to Goodwill!
🙂 ,,
Chores, Good and Bad
The wrath rising in me when ironing
equaled the steam sizzling from
the readied iron, so adept was I
at ironing extra wrinkles into
blouses and pants.
I own an iron. Let’s see, where
do I keep the little devil? Well,
somewhere in my house
is rusted, unused iron.
Helping Mom bake creations
of confections like chocolate
chip cookies awed me. Mixing
batter, upending bag of semi-sweet
chips, and folding them into mixture,
some rolling under my tongue.
Heady aroma of vanilla, scooping
spoons of dough onto cookie sheets,
watching as cookies spread
into large puffy circles.
Baking still fills me with love, using
Mom’s recipe for chocolate chip
cookies, but I use larger scoops
of dough for softer, succulent melters.
Hummm – You give me the longing for some Hot CC Cookies!
Go to it!
Mmmmm…. I’ll iron for you, Sara, and you can pay me with CC Cookies!!! 🙂 !
Deal!
😀 😀 !!
(Haiku)
Dishes, beds and floors,
potatoes peeled, table set.
dust, laundry, yard work.
We all took a turn
at what was needed doing
that is called family,
Thinking back – I recall one thing I learned amazingly well.
One can accomplish a tremendous amount of work between the time a parent’s car enters the driveway and the house door opens….
[Has come in handy when unexpeded company drives up….]
Also, Get plates on the table a, kettle of water on the hot burner. 😉 ..
LOL, I can still hear one of us saying: “MOM AND DAD’S HOME!!” as we rushed to finish our daily chores before they walked in the door! :D!
Sweet…
🙂 …
The early bird
The birds would watch
(I was convinced)
as the ancient milk float
creaked arthritically
the length of our street
No milk today thank you
or six please plus butter
and a dozen eggs
read the notes stuffed in the
empties exchanged for:
red top, homogenized
like European democracy,
silver top, plebian and unremarkable,
and on weekends gold top, splendid in the sunrise
its thick cream rising to the top.
Saturdays, I stood guard
staring through the letterbox
listening to the chatter
determined to swoop
before that shining foil was pierced.
Oh, yes, I remember milk man, too! Loved this!
I remember, in Alaska, the milk was deliverd and often there, before we collected the bottles, was a frozen ‘cork’ of milk pushed out the bottle neck sporting a crown of silver.
Oh, I love this. I remember having milk delivered. I adored those bottles.
Ironing Sheets
I loved the symmetry of folded sheets,
corner to corner, pressed and steamed,
spritzed with starch, growing smaller
and smaller, high-thread-count origami,
stacked beneath matching pillowcases,
His and Hers embroidered white on white.
The hiss of steam as metal met moisture
whispered secrets to me, alone
in the laundry room, creases stiff
beneath my iron, a talisman part
bookend, part Monopoly marker
on holiday away from the Scottie dog,
the little car. On occasion, I too
fled the company of siblings on bikes,
of neighborhood children, choosing
even instead of my books that simple
solid chore, deferring my drowsy
dreams beneath their smooth weight,
no single wrinkle disturbing my sleep,
a princess without her pea.
….. yesss…
OOOOO, Thank Heavens we Never had to resort to ironing sheets!
The thought is mind boogling.
Although my feelings on ironing are opposite to yours, I love the poem, and it brought back memories of my father reading my favorite bedtime story, The Princess and the Pea.
🙂 !!
Celebration of the Clothesline
Of all the tasks that fell on me to perform
When my mother’s weak heart gradually
Claimed her ability to take care of our home
Doctor bills and my father’s salary
Allowed for a lady only once a week to clean.
My favorite duty was the laundry
In those days of wringer washers
And outdoor lines
Where clothes were pinned and floated joyfully
Into a sky of blue and world of sun
I loved the feel of fresh mown blades of grass
Tickling my feet (I tossed away my shoes)
And alternating sheets with heavy towels
Or arranging a pattern of colors, I believed
Myself to be an artist seeking the divine
Pattern of perfection, though I was never close
Those grade school years and then of junior, senior high…
My mother had passed and the laundry and I
Kept going on together.
Later, I was a mother and a wife
Who owned a magic dryer that tossed
The clothes about, all
Willy-nilly with no rhythm to be found
But such a help on days of rain or winter cold
When diapers needed drying right away.
I gave thanks for those inventions
But on those mornings when the skies dawned blue
With smiling sun, there on my line they flew
Diapers, sheet, towels and everything I knew
Would celebrate their moments in the sun/
🙂 🙂
OH! Gorgeous!!! I still Love to pull my clothes off of my Mom’s outdoor clothesline and Breathe them in deeply!! 🙂 !!
“Stiff”
Inhale the steaming
Niagra spray starch puffing
above the iron, fold dad’s hanky,
iron the fold, fold and iron, crease and
fold, steam the edges, pick another off the pile,
crease and fold, inhale the sizzle, a dozen a week
for hay fever needs, pick a white shirt, give it a shake,
collar first, wrists then around the buttons, back stiff
trial and error, on tip-toes, at eye-level, hang it
button it, pick a peck of pillow cases, bleached
and steamed, embroidered in white, then
spray and starch, fold and crease,
inhale and fold and . . .
Oh, Jlynn. Memories came flooding back for me with this. I, too sprayed Niagara spray strach and ironed my dad’s handkerchiefs!
YES!! Love those starched white shirts… !!
… 🙂 …
Time to Delegate
Of all the chores I hated most
cleaning the bathroom would be my choice
No one to share or bargain with
Complaining was a waste of voice.
I loved to do the dusting,
removing grime to see the shine.
The smell of lemon-scented pledge
to me was just divine.
Does anyone iron anymore?
It seems a long lost art.
Hubby and I can’t stand to see wrinkles
So with ironing each day does start.
So now the chores are divided up,
over my children’s heads they loom.
Dishes, garbage, sweeping, dusting
and yes, cleaning the bathroom!
© KED 2012
Ha, ha, ha… well done!!!
Sounds fair to me – and it rhymns! 🙂
What a fun prompt this is turning out to be! Absolutely loving all the imagery and memory — each creatively presented. You guys totally ROCK!
Marie Elena
Sixty-five
Of course. It’s easier and faster
to do the job your self. However:
a child must have chores:
how else will he learn responsibility?
Chores are for farmers; and the lower class;
families with fifteen still in diapers.
A child must have chores
to teach him to manage time.
A child must have chores
to teach him that nothing in life is free.
Lazy mothers deal out chores
then settle on the sofa with vodka
and chocolates
and True Romance.
Sitting on the floor in the living room,
Mama and I
played Crazy-8s:
loser washes the dishes
(just another chance, please, best of five)
almost every night.
A child must have chores
to learn his role in a household
Chores are for those mothers can’t stay home
and whose children don’t have fathers.
A child must have chores
to teach him to be a part of a team
The fathers who demand chores
follow other men’s orders all day
and will, by god, have your respect
A child must have chores
to learn to work alone
How many stars
on the refrigerator door are yours?
Have you done your chores?
Go wash your hands.
… wow… captured…!
What a well presentd ‘mouth full of truth” 🙂
Waltzing With Dishes
You dry, she said
as if dishes were wishes
and that was enough to enthral
me with this earn your own keep
horrible chore-ible
sort of stuff.
And so I dried,
but in a misery-boots
sort of huff ‘cause what I really
wanted to do was play
in a swervy,
sashaying
sort of way
in all those bubbles that turned
greasy, grubby dishes to squeaky clean.
But what I really,
really, really wanted
was to wear those long,
luscious, pink rubber gloves;
they were like Cinderella’s shoes
but for a waltzing with dishes.
Your inner child has crept into the limelight for this one!
She speaks to us in her wonderful, unique voice!!! :)!
Misky, this poem is perfection: mood, language, everything. Thank you. Horrible chore-ible is a wonderful expression.
Thanks, girls!! 😀
That is wonderful – plus the washer is alway the first one ‘done’ 🙂
Wish I had time to comment more, but the “Dinner-making-chore” is calling… 😦
Finally had a moment to write for this prompt. Our visitor has gone back to Canada. This is the first response to this prompt. I’ll probably do at least one more. Hope you like it.
Days on Needles and Pins
Breakfast! Eggs, toast, sausage—
Don’t forget Daddy’s lunch fixin’s!
Get brother ready for visiting.
Ah, where are we going to stay today,
And is it on the calendar?
Which neighbor do I get to help?
Will it be running bloated sheep,
Or laundry and lawn or
Maybe only canning or garden harvest?
Get clothes ready to wash tomorrow,
And don’t forget to straighten the house.
Please God, bring Mom home soon.
Make her well and let us have her back.
Precious Mums. Your poem is heartbreaking.
…yes… heartbreaking…
Oh, Viv. I didn’t mean it to be heartbreaking. It was touch and go, but Mom did come home and live many healthy years. But for us, during those weeks of uncertainty, not knowing was a killer.
I didn’t know until that event that I was capable of running a household at such an early age. I doubt any would without having it thrust on them. But all worked out all right.
My mom never failed to know how much I could do. That was my primary lesson from the experience.
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Put Through the Ringer
The anti-domestic gene was surgically implanted
In me at a very young age when my Mother insisted
That perfection was a necessity in every facet
Of housework or anything having to do with same
Dusting was an uber sport, as was floor polishing
Dishes, laundry, ironing – anything remotely
Connected to keeping that house ship-shape
And spotless – as well as the inhabitants and their
Possessions – fell under the purview of my Mother
And in so doing, fell in the realm of her control
It wasn’t until many years and countless hours
Of therapy later, I finally figured out that Mother
Felt if she could control all of those things
Her world would be safe and in control …
A wrong assumption of course, oh-so-very wrong
But growing up, there was no way for her or us
To know that, and so we all suffered and danced
To the tune of trying to be perfect, and learning
To do all the things Mother deemed important
To keep our world – her world – perfect for her
So it is that I can iron shirts with absolute perfection
Polish furniture to a reflection high lustre and sheen
Dishes used to get rinsed to within an inch of clean before
The dishwasher if I didn’t force myself to just put them in
Now – I’ve gone to the other extreme – daring friends
To write the date in the dust in my coffee table …
I have a sign on my fridge that reads,
“My house was clean yesterday – sorry you missed it!”
And, bending over backwards to not be that controlling
Person I grew up under, I am a sloth – work hard at being
As undomesticated as possible … I feel good about taking
My kids or grand-kids places, or doing things for or with
my husband and being a good writer or working at that …
But — if I feel myself beginning to obsess about the house
in any way … forget about it.
Oh how clearly you have written my own experiences. And I didn’t learn better until my kids were grown and left home, so they suffered too.
I’m better now, and waste hours blogging and quilting – and none of that is perfect either!
Bravo for your marathon journey to sanity.
LOL, Wonderful, Sharon… My daughters’s house is usually a Wreck, until her children clean it up… 🙂 !!!
Thank you both Viv and Hen … it’s funny but not, if you know what I mean … now, because of being Bipolar, I have to be careful not to let myself descend into utter chaos; I am lucky beyond belief that the love of my life is willing to live in whatever state I seem to need, and then pitches in when it’s time to help us get out of the mess …
…ahhh yes… a good, kind Love will support through Anything… Hugs to you ❤ !!
It is good to find out ‘who you are, and what makes you tick.’
I am late to this, having only just found it. I shall come back and read later, but couldn’t resist sharing the prose piece I have just written, which I should entitle: Chores Gone Wrong
Never bake in a new sweater
Cake-eating sewing ladies coming tomorrow. Must make a cake. Maria gave me some Bramleys, ergo it must be apple cake.
Set to with a will, flagging towards the end. Once I could bake all day and play 3 sets of tennis in the evening. Now an hour is more than enough. Spring-sided tin refused to stay shut. Messed about with string, knotting several short pieces to tie it shut – being of a recycling frame of mind.
Recipe said mix to soft dropping consistency. Ah, I learned that in school. Soft-flopped the mixture into the tin and popped it into 180˚C fan oven for prescribed 40-45 minutes until firm on top. Got on with a bit of blogging.
Pinger pinged, cake prodded, Hmm. That seems firm and a nice brown. OK out onto the table, snip the string, ease with knife round stuck bits of paper lining. Invert onto wire rack and gloat.
Take off pinny. Oops: heap of gooey-soft-dropped-mixture on table. Cake appears unchanged. Bung it back in oven in a hurry. Notice blobs of cake mix on protruding bits of new sweater. Weep.
Scrape up blobs onto plate and put in oven. Forget about it. Eat burnt cake from plate while keeping careful eye on the remainder in oven. YUM. Whether it will ever be edible remains to be seen.
Later…much later…Cake cooked and the major chore of oven-cleaning takes over.
Oh my… been there 😦 , but, what are ya gonna do… EAT CAKE!!! 😀 !!!
ahahahaha – been there also – oddly enough, one thing I do love to do is bake (have to be in the mood but that’s a given …)
Viv–one of my first attempts at baking cake was so horrific, I had to hide it…great write!
I think I’ve caught up now–strange thing happens–I get the email and then, when I come to the site the prompt disappears…and then reappears days later
Chore Haikus
Painful and pointless
Pesky weeds would all grow back
Now best mindless chore
Mom and I joined forces
Dishes do not wash themselves
Bonded in the suds
The Chores of Childhood
It was a small town, a village really,
and everybody had their special roles.
There were six churches and with them,
six types of leaders, one called priest,
another two were pastors, three more
by name and function, ministers.
Not large enough for multiple choice,
but populated aplenty to require each service,
we had one drug counter, one hardware store,
a small post office, an eight-lane bowling alley,
Sal the barber, and the IGA grocery,
owned and run by my family.
There were also tradesmen scattered about,
working from their homes and trucks,
plumbers and electricians and such.
Also scattered throughout the streets,
most of which ended at the lake shore,
were thirty or more taverns, but
that’s a story unto itself.
I worked in that grocery, performing
most tasks, like checking and bagging,
stocking and delivery, sweeping and dusting,
marking prices on cans with black grease pencils.
I steered clear of the meat counter, though,
never trusting those knife-wielding butchers,
unable to stomach the blood, the smells.
When the summer folks arrived, mostly
rich people who did not cook,
I learned to make potato salads and cole slaw
and baked beans, a vegetarian in the making.
The wealthy did not shop, calling in their orders,
and it was for me to take them their bags of goods.
Sometimes, I broke an egg or twelve along the way,
but they never tipped, so it did not bother me much.
It always amazed me that these people
with so much gave so little.
My work did not end at that store.
A sickly mother, an often absent father,
a large yard, and the usual requirements of living
all gave me chores in slew-size.
I can’t recall if I complained back then,
but I’m grateful for it now, that work experience.
It taught how to cook, to clean, to care.
It taught me the silliness of “someone oughta”.
It gave me strength when my mother’s
sickness turned to death.
It gave me order when my father stayed absent.
It provided the way to responsibility.
It provided me with broad shoulders.
It gave meaning to that lesson about
Saint Francis of Assisi, where he was asked
while raking the garden what he would do
if he knew he would die that afternoon, and
he said he would finish raking the garden.
Very well written expressing a wide array of good learning.
The Pain of Chores
Chores are a pain.
Those words
Must have passed
My lips
A thousand times
As a child.
Dishes,
Laundry,
Vacuuming…
Who wanted
To waste time
Trapped in the house
When fun and friends
Beckoned from
The yard,
The park,
The streets
Of the neighborhood?
Those years
Have long gone,
And today
Chores are truly a pain,
Ten minutes
Of vacuuming
Enough to unleash
A raging monster
Coiling around
My spine,
Sending me writhing
Searching for ice packs,
Heating pads,
And painkillers;
Folding laundry
With numb fingers
Little more
Than origami torture
In a washable
Cotton-poly blend.
I’d trade a million
Spaghetti-crusted pans
For just one day
When the pain of chores
Was not so literal.
Truely, Sorry 😦
[…] this installment, we are asking to reflect on our childhood chores. I will admit to the fact that I did not really […]
[…] Written for Poetic Bloomings Prompt #77 (Memoir Project – Part #12): It’s A Chore […]
Growing Up Poor
Growing up poor was a blessing in many ways
It gave me the opportunity to fend for myself
And for my family
Growing up poor meant making the right choices
What did we need and what could we do without
The needs meant survival
The wants often lost out
Growing up poor made us appreciate the little things
Like growing a garden, chopping wood, or cooking
We all had a part
We worked together
And we survived
Growing up poor prepared me for whatever may come
Poverty made me thankful for the gifts God would give
God gave and gave
More than was asked
More than was needed
And we gave thanks
Growing up poor was worth its weight in gold
(C) 2013 Earl Parsons