What DOES She Do All Day?

Walking down the road on that blustery afternoon, I could not understand the intensity of the pain I was experiencing.  I had never known pain so powerful.  I had my feelings hurt many times, but it was not nearly as piercing as this.  I heard the engine of the bus as it continued on its route around the country block.  This was a routine we did every weekday after school, but today the short trek from the end of Dickenson Road to our driveway seemed particularly long.  Making my way up our long driveway I lagged well behind my siblings.  Once inside the landing, I lifted the lid of the boot bench and dropped my boots inside.  Above the bench was a row of hooks; supposedly enough for each of us to have a place for our coat, scarf and hat.  As was often the case, the hook intended for me was filled with someone else’s heavy farm coat.  The coat room smelled like the barn; like the cattle and the hay; an indescribable scent that defined our home.   Though it was an odor I was comfortable with, I was not so comfortable with the teasing I would get from the school girls about such a fragrance in the school hallway.  By this time I could not hold back the bitter tears; letting my coat fall to the ground I walked up the steps. 

I walked into the kitchen to find my siblings already cleaning up from their afternoon snack.  My sister looked at me surprised and concerned by my sullen mood. 

“What is the matter!?” she said tenderly.  She helped me onto the living room couch, listened intently to my woes, and finally went to get the thermometer.   While mother got the potatoes boiling and finished up meal preparations my older sister took on the role of caring mother, tending to my every need.  She found a pillow, provided me with ginger ale, blankets, set up the pull-out-couch, and quieted others in the house.  Nothing seemed more comforting than her warm attention and resting flat on the pillow.  It didn’t take long to fall asleep.  

What seemed like only minutes later, I woke to observe our large family gathered around the table with talk of “what’s wrong with her?” and “Should we make her come to the table?”  As the medication began to take effect I was more alert to the goings-ons around me.  Life wasn’t stopping just because I wasn’t feeling well; dinner, conversation, dishes, watching the news, reading the paper.  The milk was still brought in after the evening chores. I watched how my older siblings helped each other with their homework, and saw how efficiently they cleaned the kitchen.  I had never noticed before how much my brother liked history, and how in tune he was to the nightly news; neither of which had I really been interested in.  Maybe I should pay more attention.  As I began to drift off to sleep, the noises of house began to be overwhelming; “Happy Days” didn’t seem so happy, my siblings’ talented guitar playing hurt my head, and the conversation about the algebra problem seemed remarkably loud.    My younger sister was the first to notice my teary state.  “Why don’t you go to bed.” She suggested.  Minutes later the dark and quiet of my room, though lonely for a moment, allowed me to drift off to sleep. 

On a normal school day, arriving home I often found Mom resting on the couch.  About the time we finished our snack she was up getting supper ready.  While I found myself wondering just what she did all day, this illness was going to allow me to find out.  While everyone else was either at school or work my Mom was busily working in the kitchen; on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor with a bucket nearby.  She told me she was just finishing and would get me some breakfast as soon as she wiped the last corner.  Sitting at the table I heard a strange ‘click’ sound coming from the warm jars on the counter.  “Why do the jars makes that noise, Mom?”  I asked.

“They are sealing tight.  Then we can put them in the pantry until we are ready to eat them.” She answered.  The row of pint jars filled with freshly made strawberry jam cluttered the counter.  Next to the still warm jam was a batch of homemade bread.  It had already been sliced and seemed to be calling my name.  “Can I have some bread for breakfast?” I said, hoping to hear a resounding ‘yes.’  Mom’s bread was the best I had ever tasted and something the entire family bragged about.  It melted in my mouth as I took my first bite.  The jam tasted so much like fresh strawberries, it was hard to decide which I liked better.  Before I finished my first slice the phone rang.  Mom got up off her knees, answered the phone and kept working in the kitchen while talking away to a church member.  I overheard her responses; something about the funeral, and bringing a dish to pass.   As quickly as she was off the phone she scurried to the basement to pull out some frozen meat.  Our freezer stock of meat was getting low, but it would soon be time to butcher another side of beef.  She did not hesitate to share what she had with others in their time of need.  In addition our family meal she would make another to take to tomorrow’s funeral.   Propped on the couch, with tea and hot soup I watched my mother work.  Never again need I wonder what she did all day.  Her work was non-stop!  In addition to making the jam & bread and mopping the floor (that surely needed it every day!) she washed several loads of laundry and hung them outside to dry.  She pulled the iron out while catching a show, she pulled out her sewing machine and worked on a hem, and began to cut out the pattern for a new blouse for my sister.  She got ready for the 4-H meeting that she was leading.  She called my Grandmother to make sure she was OK, and made plans to help the elderly neighbors with their housework.

No wonder she was resting when I came home most days! It was her calm before another storm of daily chores.

When my siblings arrived the familiar routine ensued.  The snack, the table-setting, milking time and so on.  My brother teasingly handed me a stack of homework from the day I had missed.  My ear ache had subsided and I would likely be back on the bus in the morning.  My sister began to peel the potatoes.  I looked out toward the pasture, Bossy was being beckoned into her stall, my brothers were busy at work.  Maybe I should be as well.

“Do you want me to set the table tonight?” I asked as I folded my blanket on the edge of the couch.