Chores

                Summer mornings were beautiful.  I preferred to watch the sun rising over the barn, illuminating the corn, and warming our above- ground pool water from the dining room table.  There I would sit and talk with my Ma about how Grandma was doing, which neighbors she would stopping by to see, or what chores she had to do for the day.  Grandma lived in town and enjoyed a visit from any of her 13 children (make that 11, as two had already passed away,) or any of her many many Grandchildren.  I had stopped taking piano lessons from Grandma, as I was certain there wasn’t a musical bone in my body and that I ‘just didn’t have it’ as far as musical aptitude was concerned.  Instead, of taking up piano like my older brothers, vocals like the older three, violin like my younger sister, or even or guitar like several of my siblings, I would take up ‘music appreciation.’  It was my ‘calling’ to sit nearby the duo or trio and enjoy the incredible sounds that came from the instruments or voices.  I would sit in the stands during the high school talent show, and in the pew during the church service while they sang and played guitar, I attended their musicals, and walked up to receive my diploma after my younger sister played her violin.   Later in life, I slapped my leg to the beat during the barn dances listening to my sister jam on her guitar or dulcimer, and enjoying my young nieces performance of The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald.  During holiday gatherings, I was true to my calling as my siblings picked up their acoustic guitars and rang out the holiday sounds.  I still prefer to listen to my siblings ‘jammin session’ to the best of Tommy Emmanuel.  As to Ma’s visit to the neighbors; Ma’s benevolent heart always attracted and amazed me.  It took me a long time to understand that Uncle Al wasn’t really my Uncle.  He was a neighbor that Ma cared for when he needed an extra hand.  This was something she did often for others; whether it was bringing them a meal, helping them to clean or just sitting across their table listening to stories about their house full of cats or the medical woes that wouldn’t let them back out in their garden.  She was always lending someone ‘less fortunate’ a hand.  I assumed that is what all mother’s did.  I assumed it was part of their role.  When Ma got around to talking about the chores for the day, that is the time I often wished I could squirm away from the table.  It seemed that my Mom’s list of things I couldn’t do, wasn’t as long as mine.  She had all the faith in the world that I COULD/WOULD weed the rows and rows of beans, cucumbers, or whatever else was planted, with the rest of ‘em.  She further insisted that getting an early start would assure that when Dad came home our work we could surely appease his wishes.  As I stared out the window at the sun rising further and further in the morning sky, I knew my ‘do list’ was already written for me. 

***  ****          

Early summer garden chores meant stepping barefoot (because we almost always went barefoot on the farm) into the strawberry patch,  beans, corn, cucumbers etc.  Thank goodness Dad used the tiller to tend to the raspberries.  On a typical weeding day; one of the older siblings called the marching orders, we each were assigned a row.  Stern instructions were given to get ‘every last weed,’ and a reminder was sounded that Dad would be checking.  That always put the fear of God in me as I set about my task.  If I had to go back to the garden, I would miss all my favorite shows; and have to do so while Dad taught me all over again the proper way to weed.  As I stared at the rich dark soil, and saw the bright green weeds poking through I tried not to peer down the seemingly endless row.  To see the length my row was to remind me how much of the day was NOT mine to do as I pleased.  Ma didn’t care how we accomplished the task, as long as we left the crop in the ground and rid her garden of those weeds!  How Ma knew we sometimes accidentally-on-purpose pulled a bean plant from its roots just to save work on the picking & snipping side of things, I’ll never know. 

Out in the garden we did not understand the importance our role played in what would eventually end up on our supper table, or in the pantry of an elderly neighbor.   We just knew we had a job to do.  My siblings & I had much discussion about the ‘best’ way to go about it.  Sometimes we could hoe up the soil, loosen the weed, and then rake it down the way, other times we had to painstakingly pull each weed, especially as it threatened to choke our crop.  Together, my siblings & I worked in the garden.  Sometimes talking, often joking, and sometimes long bouts of silence ensued as we hoed and pulled and raked.  The sun beat on our backs (of course the girls were watching their bikini tan line, while the boys took off their shirts.)  We worked in unison in the rich black soil.   If we wanted to add music to the mundane day, we had to produce it from our own vocal chords;  acapella.  No MP3 player with headset, just each other.  Together we came up with some pretty creative songs about how much ‘fun’ it was out in the garden!

Though we were all considered the distance runners around school, there was one time when our sprinting skills shone; that is when the phone rang.  We could be in garden to the north of the barn near the far end of the field, and somehow my sisters or I would hear that phone ring and even more amazingly get to it before the party on the other end hung up.  We only had one phone.  It was attached to the wall near the kitchen.  There was no phone in our pocket, or answering machine to catch the call if we were too busy.  Either we answered or we didn’t.  They either called back later, or kept it ringing hoping we’d heard the ring from wherever we were.  It took me awhile to figure out that the sibling with the boyfriend usually shot out of the garden the fastest.  One minute our knees were deep in the dirt, and our fingers thick with the moist black gold, and the next minutes one of us could be chattering away while the remaining siblings complained that they were doing all the work.   

As the sun worked its way across the afternoon sky, we finished our chores in the garden.  The rows of vegetables were surrounded by rich black soil again, the wheelbarrows of pokey, choking weeds were removed and taken to a pile near our home-made dump to the south of the house.  Rakes, hoes, and other garden tools were put away.  Looking out the window I watched as Dad walked up the driveway after carpooling to/from work.  We would soon find out if we were actually done in the garden for the day as Dad would indeed be checking our work.  If he headed to the barn the evening would be ours to soak in the pool, hang out in a tree, or the loft of the barn, or watch shows on TV.  My regular indoor chores of setting the table and peeling the potatoes while Ma did her magic over the stove began.  While working inside I listened as Ma shared stories of the work she accomplished indoors, and the plans she had to go see Grandma in the morning.  We often had to clear the table of the sewing project she had begun between scrubbing the floor, doing the laundry, and making supper.   While taking the plates from the cupboard I heard the sound of the milk bucket being removed from its home on the landing.  Dad would head to the barn, and we began to make plans of our own for the evening.