Category: housework

Generous Hospitality

On By ednafroeseIn books, family, gifts, Gratitude, housework, StoriesLeave a comment
Photo of a small deep blue-green lake in the mountains with a trail toward the lake in the foreground.
A place that welcomes me on the rare occasions when I can get there.

            Sometimes our aversions reveal more of us than our acknowledged preferences. I have always been appalled by the hoarding of things. To go shopping for the sake of shopping seems pointless and to gather material goods without end self-defeating. I saw the consequences of that kind of hoarding up close when a neighbourhood fire took one life and upended another – all because of a failure to dispose of anything. I was likewise horrified by the sight of no less than 12 huge disposal bins of stuff being hauled away from a different house in the neighbourhood whose sole owner and resident had been moved to a care home. I have heard several equally baffling stories of compulsive hoarding, yet I still cannot comprehend such a life-threatening accumulation of mere stuff.

 So it was something of a shock to glimpse a hoarding tendency in myself. One can, I now realize, cling to experiences and even household jobs with a stinginess that runs counter to genuine hospitality. The easing of pandemic restrictions in the past months, during which whatever resources I had within myself and around me had to be sufficient, has indirectly shifted my perspective on what it means to be generous rather than to hoard.

 A story from former teaching days will do as introduction. When I first stepped behind the podium in university classrooms, I vowed to teach only literature texts that I myself enjoyed. How could I communicate the importance of reading without sharing those novels, poems, essays, and dramas that I had learned to love? I kept my vow, mostly.

There came a time, though, when I no longer taught my special favorites. I had loved Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, for example, and delighted in every rereading. That’s precisely why it was hard to be gracious about negative reactions from students, whether in class discussions or in assigned papers. I wanted to protect the novel, preserve it from the fumbling misunderstandings or dislikes of beginning readers. In other words, I wanted to hoard for myself my pleasure in Austen’s linguistic skill and memorable characters.  

There is a risk in offering to others what one loves, be it favourite books, special vacation spots (the opening photo remains unidentified on purpose), gardening tasks, cooking, craft skills, family heirlooms, special foods, treasured items. If the love, along with the story that explains the love, is not understood or is just brushed aside as unimportant, the specialness of the experience is somehow spoiled. The normal human desire to share what is beloved runs into the equally normal human desire to preserve in purity what is beloved. 

The normal human desire to share what is beloved contradicts the equally normal human desire to preserve in purity what is beloved.

Another example from my university student days: my sister and I attended the U of S at the same time, for a year or two. I was aiming for a degree in English literature; she was working on a degree in clinical psychology. Without a doubt, my very vocal antipathy for psychology provoked resentment if not outright hostility, even as I vigorously defended my favorite Shakespeare seminar class against her negative memories from a different Shakespeare class. Our relationship survived that difference; sisterly commitment can teach mutual tact.

 Odd how easy it is for me to understand lapses into ungenerous attitudes that occurred decades ago. Distance provides perspective and some wisdom. It has not been as easy to see in the moment when I have chosen to hoard my pleasure in something rather than to share it willingly.

 So let me sidle up to the painful analysis by stepping sideways into the sharing of material gifts. To purchase some ready-made item as a gift is comparatively risk-free, although feelings can be hurt there, too. You don’t like the book that I chose for you? Well, you can always give it away again or perhaps return it if I’ve included a gift receipt. Not a problem. If you don’t mind telling small lies, I might never discover that you were annoyed I could even imagine that you’d like such a book.

 However, if I’ve put hundreds of hours into crocheting a beautiful afghan meant as a bedspread, and you then toss it to the cat for a plaything – oh, that’s another matter entirely. If I’ve worked meticulously to prepare and then present some baking or flower arrangement or meal, yet the gift is seemingly not appropriately received, then I’ll feel as if my effort was valueless.

Photo of a bouquet of gladiola against a off-white wall.

            Already those examples shade into the category of experiences or labour turned into a material gift. Such gifts entail some giving of myself.  

So what about the sharing of myself that hospitality calls for? I have known since childhood that there is such a thing as ungenerous, ungracious hospitality. Obligation, whatever its source, can motivate us to be the host, make the appropriate gestures, and provide the necessaries, whether we are emotionally ready or not. Mercifully, the visit can still become a joyous occasion in spite of initial reluctance. But it is far better to open heart and home willingly, with eager anticipation. There is a reason that the surprise (and surprising) guest who brings miraculous gifts appears in so many folk tales and in sacred texts.  

Much as I admire the gift of being hospitable and have learned to take great delight in hosting guests, I admit that I still struggle sometimes to find a balance between the joy of hospitality—it’s been so long since we could offer dinners in our home or put the spare bedroom to good use—and an ongoing need for some solitude, not to mention too great a sensitivity about prized possessions or beloved tasks.

An example: I love gardening (my readers already know that) and even the usually onerous chores such as weeding are mine. Let me exaggerate here and insist that my flowers and I know one another: I think I know how much water they need and how gentle I should be when I pluck off dead flowers. What then shall I say when some child passing by on the front walk wants to “help”? Or asks if he can pick some flowers? – yeah, the ones I planned to save for seed next year.

  I began this blog writing about hoarding. Easy enough to decry the silliness of collecting empty plastic bottles or ancient newspapers. Not so easy to look in the mirror and admit that I sometimes let my perfectionism block real connections with guests as much as if I had piled up boxes of stuff across the front hall. But I wanted that entrée to look exactly that way, so I refused the help of someone who wanted to be part of the creative process, too, not just an eater of the final production.

photo of a plate with a carefully arranged fruit salad with ice cream and nuts, all on a base of lettuce leaves.

  A final story: my beloved mother-in-law was the embodiment of hospitality. She taught me much that I needed to learn about welcoming people into our home, into our life. There came a time when she could no longer offer hospitality, when it was our turn to host family gatherings. Thinking that it was about time she took some well-earned rest (and her hands had become shaky), I wanted to turn down her offers to help. The making and serving of meals was now my job. Fortunately, I was reminded, tactfully, that she still needed to be part of the kitchen crew with its happy chatter, wanted to see herself as a contributing member of the community. My refusal of help had been ungenerous.

I am grateful for the continual teaching I get from our children as they now raise their own children. Their free sharing of work and experiences with their little ones teach me now what I didn’t learn when I was a child: sharing is better than hoarding, and comfortable relationships matter more than final products.

Updating the Public Calendar

On By ednafroeseIn family, Gratitude, housework, identity, memories, possibilityLeave a comment

            Every now and then, when the times are right, previously unthinkable ideas suddenly gain a sympathetic hearing. We are, just now, in a time of re-evaluating public monuments and asking hard questions about who gets a monument and why. If it was monuments I wanted to write about this time, I would definitely begin with Percy Byssche Shelley’s“Ozymandias,” a poignant reminder that nothing remains forever, not even monuments.

I’m not sure that there is an equally apt poem for helping us ask who should get a calendar day or when we might remove a special day or whether we could demote a public holiday into just a named day only. We should consider that more often, I think.

A Mother’s Day card given to me

In early May, in the week before Mother’s Day, I heard an elementary teacher interviewed on CBC Radio say firmly that Mother’s Day shouldn’t even be mentioned in the school, although she had no objection to families acknowledging the day in whatever way was suitable for them. She herself refused to ask her students to make special cards or crafts for their mothers because it was too emotionally complicated. Perhaps the time has come for some rethinking.   

So what is Mother’s Day like for you? I’ve heard such a variety of stories here, and could tell a few of my own, if I chose (which I won’t). For some children, it’s a special, beautiful day with flowers for Mommy and a child-cooked meal, liberally seasoned with love. For some children, it’s an awkward day filled with anxiety about what mood Mommy might be in. Or it could be a bitter day because there is no Mommy there to honor.

 For some mothers, it’s a tender day, time to smile with pleasure over the simple offerings made by childish hands. Perhaps the children are grown now with young ones of their own and the gathering of the clan on Mother’s Day is full of comfortable satisfaction of seeing traditions continued, new adventures begun, and affectionate, happy teasing passed down from uncles to nephews and nieces.

For other mothers, the day is wracked with regret, with submerged grief, perhaps overshadowed with inter-generational violence. What do you suppose Mother’s Day might mean for Indigenous mothers whose children were taken away? who never saw their children again? The fulsome compliments printed on the inside of many Mother’s Day cards can be agonizingly remote.

And I have not yet mentioned the women who are not mothers who wish they could be. It’s a complicated day, indeed.

            May I suggest that it is time to readjust our calendars and allow Mother’s Day (and Father’s Day, too—all of the above observations apply) to become a matter of private choice?

Back in the early 1900s, when Mother’s Day was inaugurated officially, women were still generally assumed to have been created to become mothers. Never mind voting, never mind holding office, never mind taking up respected and well-paid careers—women were designed solely to have and raise babies. They were limited to service and work that earned little—either money or respect. Mother’s Day, with its call for gratitude, served an important purpose in its recognition of the role and work of women, even as it unfortunately raised expectations for mothers without opening up other avenues of being. Surely we have now moved beyond that stereotype, and have also recognized that families come in different forms and that nurturing is done by many others besides mothers. That observation is not, by any means, meant to diminish the importance of having and raising babies.

Herewith, I offer three suggestions for making Mother’s Day unnecessary:

One, foster a culture of gratitude through small daily rituals. Teach your children from the time they learn to talk to say a clear “thank you for breakfast” (and lunch and dinner) to whoever made the meal. Teach that ritual through modeling. If Papa baked the bread, say thanks. If Big Sister made the salad, say thanks. If Baby set the table, say thanks. Say “thanks for doing the laundry,” even though that individual always does the laundry. Say “thanks for cleaning the bathroom – it looks lovely.” Express appreciation for simple tasks throughout the household, however that household is composed. Say thanks to your roommate for tidying her room, and do it without sarcasm or judgment. Keep it simple but be grateful.

The only two Mother’s Day cards that I found in my mother’s possessions when I sorted through her belongings after her death. Both cards had been obviously chosen to evoke memories for Mom that would have been meaningful for her, and the inside of each card was blank except for handwritten expressions of specific gratitude.

While we’re at it, let’s practice those rituals of gratitude at the work place and in our neighbourhoods. Say thanks to the longsuffering individual who finally cleaned the staff room. Say thanks, often, to the night-time cleaning staff, to the boss, to the front-line receptionist. Say thank you to the grocery store cashier, the delivery person, the mail carrier. Let pandemic awareness of the services of other people continue long past the pandemic.

Two, extend the gratitude from specific tasks to states of being. Try the occasional “I like seeing you cuddled up with the dog; it makes me feel comfy”; “when I see you lost in a book, I’m pleased for you”; “your giggle is so happy it’s contagious – did you know that?” For some of us, that might take a tremendous effort of will and some practice. Given that when I was a child, I saw (and felt) far more of criticism than gratitude, it’s been a long hard course of learning for me that’s still not finished.  

Three, make birthdays a big deal. Birthdays are individual days; they’re marked just on your calendar not on public calendars. Find ways of bringing joy and recognizing the unique personhood of the people who are close to you. Birthdays are not about how well someone fills a particular role (that’s what has always made me uncomfortable about Mother’s Day—those outsize expectations always left me feeling guilty). Birthdays are about the gift of being that that person has brought into the world. Celebrate that! 

To put it simply, I wish we could recognize the worth and dignity of each human being, never mind special days. Practicing rituals of gratitude in our household and in our work places and in our public spaces might well undercut societal evils such as the racism that is only too obvious in recent news headlines. For sure, there is a desperate need also for structural reform, but for now, I’m thinking of the small deeds, the simple words that can spread an impact for good.  

May I now say, “thank you for reading this”?   

A handmade thank you card from a friend. Inside was a personal note of gratitude.

Sweet Revenge – or How to Choose a Scapegoat

On By ednafroeseIn family, housework, identity, memoriesLeave a comment
In April, there has to be a photo of spring – just because.

There are no photos that directly illustrate this posting. The events recalled herein took place back when very expensive film was used to take pictures of very important people at very important events. No one would have thought to focus the camera on a ceramic ornament in a plain farmhouse living-room. If a camera was brought out at a child’s party, it was to photograph the birthday child with the birthday cake. All else could be left to memory. Or imagination.

            Most children have chores to do that they hate—if not, they should have. Whether that be shoveling out the debris in their bedrooms or setting the table or putting their dishes in the dishwasher after a meal or cleaning up dog poop in the backyard, compulsory tasks prepare children for responsibilities of adulthood. Depending on how the regimen is implemented, such chores may be readily transformed into long-lasting habits, founded on consideration for others and reverence for good order—or they may become passionately hated inevitabilities.

 My parents meant well. While I might insist now that their slavish devotion to work could have been balanced with greater understanding of the merits of play, I am grateful for many of the habits they instilled in me. I tried to do something of the same for our own children, with what I hoped was more tolerance for play and some allowance for the development of childish free will. Only they are in a position to evaluate the success of the plan.

One of the duties I had as a child was to dust the living-room in our old farm house. With rags cut from worn-out clothes, I had to wipe the dust off every single picture edge, every rung of every wooden chair, and the least ¼-inch bit of surface on our venerable Heinzman upright piano. The top of the piano was a particular horror because, along with several framed photographs, it had ornaments (all gifts probably), each of which sat on a crocheted doily. Every ornament had to be moved, dusted to a point of immaculate polish, the piano surface underneath also polished, and then replaced precisely, in the center of the doily. Perhaps I exaggerate my mother’s perfectionism here, but I doubt it.

My detestation of the task focused especially on a large parrot of garish colors. I knew nothing of parrots, might well have been enchanted by a real parrot—this particular, ridiculously heavy bird became my scapegoat, bearing for me a confusing brew of emotions. I was often a lonely child, always bookish, addicted to escape into worlds that were glamorous and exciting, where conflicts were always resolved in favor of the young heroine. In those imaginary worlds, there were no ceramic parrots.

As a teen-ager, I hated the abominable thing even more, now for what I perceived as its ugliness, its absolute inelegancy. Was I developing a more sophisticated aesthetic? Or just displacing my unhappiness over my parents’ strictness regarding social activities onto an innocent, old-fashioned ornament? It’s hard to sort out because I don’t remember seeing any more sophisticated examples of artwork. Nor did I resist all of my mother’s cleanliness routines; several have become mine as well, regardless of how much I had once disliked them.

So it could have been just the act of dusting. To this day, it is the household chore that I postpone as long as possible.

            Decades later, I was now the disagreeable adult who insisted that her sons learn to do their chores, preferably without complaint. And at the same time, I was also the adult child who was now responsible for dispersing or disposing of my parents’ possessions after the death of my father and my mother’s move to a nursing home. The work of sorting clothing, of deciding the fate of furniture pieces, of looking through old cards, books, letters, photographs was all overlaid with the pain of loss and regret over unfinished stories. Such final processes are never easy. I tossed various small ornaments into a box, swearing never to place them on any surface in our house. And I packed up the ungainly, still miserably heavy parrot into a box of its own. Some decisions can be postponed indefinitely by the simple expedient of carting boxes into the basement.

Then came the planning of a birthday party. For which son, I no longer remember. Unlike today’s popular themed birthday parties held in gymnasiums, play places, swimming pools, etc., this party was an economical home affair with simple games and homemade food. In a moment of insane inspiration, I conceived a game of “toss and break.”

 Out came a whole box of ancient dishes, cracked and unmatched, unusable and so unsaleable. On our cement patio, which could later be swept clean, I set up one dish at a time, allowing exuberant and gleeful little boys to throw balls and break dishes. There was a guilty delight in watching the ensuing destruction. I brought out a few remaining ornaments as well. Marvelous smashes they made.

 The parrot, however, I saved for its own destiny. Later, when the young guests had gone home, probably with stories that horrified their parents, I brought out the parrot. I put it up on a pedestal of some sort, still dusty from its packing box, and fetched one of our sons’ bats.

 Ach, I can still recall the delicious pleasure with which I anticipated the parrot’s final “putting down.” Well, a dignified euthanasia it was not. One swing – and the most satisfying shattering of all. Years of dislike dissipated in one blow.  Our highly entertained sons then demanded a turn, and I let them swing at the larger pieces. Rest in pieces, old parrot. May your descendants be real birds; I shall not love even the memory of this artificial parrot into reality.

 That objects can gain symbolic worth and become lastingly loveable, I know well from experience. Any parent knows about the special blanket or the stuffed toy. All it takes is one loss of such a precious object to educate adults about its crucial importance. If they are honest, parents should also confess to having special things that hold too many memories to be discarded. Every time I try to scale back my library, my hands refuse to toss some old books that, though I haven’t read them in decades, have become almost sacred objects. It will fall to our sons, no doubt, to rip the covers apart and toss them into the recycle bin. So be it. I am content with that prospect.

 Call it a necessary process of transference, sacralisation—whatever term is appropriate here, even “scapegoat” (usually a reference to people)—for objects can learn to embody for us emotions that are too complex to be readily or safely expressed otherwise. It is the way of those objects that have been around long enough to have achieved some character, some essence of their own.

May peace be with all real parrots!

 Someday, if and when the COVID-19 pandemic is well and truly over, I would like to build a huge bonfire out of disposable masks collected on neighbourhood streets and parking lots. On any given day, one can fill bags upon bags of them, unfortunately. It will be a huge, beautiful fire, and I shall take care to stand downwind of the smoke.

When Tidying Is not Enough

On By ednafroeseIn hope, housework, political violence, politics, possibility, reform, renovationsLeave a comment
Cranberry Flats Conservation Area, south of Saskatoon.
Nature has its own transformations, its rhythms of tidying up.

            My father, a German-speaking refugee from South Russia, had two terms for cleaning up: one was German – aufräumen; and the other, we assumed, was Russian – rozmak (it might have been Ukrainian for all we knew since he had grown up in what he knew as Russia and we now know as Ukraine.)

 Aufräumen was routine, not to be shirked. It meant tasks like dusting furniture, washing dishes, washing floors, cleaning the bathroom, making beds, washing equipment in our dairy barn, putting fresh straw down for the cows, and shoveling out the manure. It also meant the final stage of any project, pleasurable or not, like sweeping up wood shavings after building something, putting away board games after a Sunday afternoon, packing up books and scribblers after homework was done, storing tools in their proper place after fixing the tractor, rinsing paint brushes and rollers when the walls were done, putting away toys as small children get ready for bed.

Aufräumen – both verb and noun. Its root, Raum, meant room, or sufficient space. With the suffix auf (up, or lift) added, the word conveys quite literally the image of picking stuff up to create more room, a cleaner, more open space. If not done often enough, it led inevitably to the other kind of clean-up. . . .   

Rozmak was something else entirely, as my father used the word. It was likewise both noun and verb in his lexicon, naming actions that were drastic, superlative, disruptive. It’s what happened when some area of the house or garage or yard required more than a mere lifting up of stuff to create a cleaner space. Instead, it meant a wholesale dismantling of the current order (more likely, disorder), and restructuring from the bottom up. Inevitably, it resulted in a very full garbage can or huge boxes of stuff to haul away to some charity or rummage sale.

If it was “time for rozmak” (as my father used to phrase it), we children became nervous about our favourite things – clothes, toys, trees, old implements back in the bush that were perfect for imaginative play. Rozmak meant deciding that the entire pantry in the basement needed to be moved elsewhere, never mind if a wall or two had to be knocked out or added; or the kitchen had become unworkable.

The transformation of our own kitchen required first a will to create change and a vision of the possible, and then lots of hard word (not to mention financial commitment).

Rozmak applied as well to organic matter as to inanimate structures.

  • Before
  • After
I love my garden, but I like to give all plants adequate space of their own. Squash, if not severely checked, takes over all available space.
Fall seems the time in which to be particularly ruthless. My clematis had become impossible. I like to think that my father would be proud of my willingness to “hold rozmak” as he put it.

 As I learned from my father, rozmak required stubborn determination and an ability to see what could be done and to discard what had once been precious or seemingly so. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. One never knew just how far rosmak might go, what might have to be sacrificed before the designated space became beautiful once more.

  Rozmak – almost a made-up word, I have discovered. It was either a mispronunciation on my father’s part or a mishearing on the part of his children who all distinctly remember the “k” sound. The word, my Russian-speaking friend told me, is actually rozmah, denoting “very deep and wide and bold actions.” She used the illustration of a birthday party, which could be a modest and simple affair, a few guests, simple menu; or held with rozmah, with 100 guests and expenses be damned.

That my Mennonite father would have chosen such a passionate Slavic word and applied it to rather utilitarian ends seems typical to me now. Hard-working farmer that he was, devout and conservative, he nevertheless revealed, every now and then, something of a streak of daring, almost a gambler’s recklessness.  

            Aufräumen and rozmah.

 Does it matter whether one is engaged in aufräumen or in rozmak? Other than in the amount of energy and focus required? Not to mention the degree of commitment to the completion of a huge task, and to the survival of the core of whatever is being reconstituted? 

These two words from my childhood have been echoing in my mind as I listen to the news and read current affairs magazines. Nothing seems predictable any more or safe; 2020 has challenged our civic institutions in ways not seen since the 1918 flu epidemic or the World Wars.

 The October issue of The Atlantic (a US-based magazine I would heartily recommend for its thoughtfulness and thorough research) examines the possibilities for hope in the US. Particularly important is “Make America Again” by George Packer. What Packer offers by way of remedy for the hyper-partisan, now almost impotent legislative system, is a kind of rozmah – a wholesale clean-up that requires a re-evaluation of the core of the democratic project and a willingness to consign to the rubbish heap those practices that have become toxic to the public good.

 When we look at our own parliamentary system, I wonder how much toxicity has leached into our corridors of power as well. Does our parliamentary system in Ottawa require just a tidying up of details, a putting away of silly games, and a washing up of dirty laundry? Or is it time to host a rummage sale of political practices and attitudes before rot really sets in? How shall we handle our structures of law and order? Will a dusting cloth be enough or is it time to rearrange the furniture or even knock out a wall or two?

 In the midst of such questions, can we please remember that rozmak, even of the most thorough variety, even in its most reckless mood, is not a revolution? Its primary aim is not destruction. Instead, the whole point is to preserve what is worth keeping and make it serve its intended purpose with greater clarity and beauty.

Catastrophes can fix our minds on a common crisis, pull down political and regulatory barriers that stand in the way of progress, and spur technological leaps, bringing talent and money together to solve big problems

(“How Disaster Shaped the Modern City” by Derek Thompson, The Atlantic, October, 2020, p. 69)

Saskatchewan faces an election. Shall we ask our candidates if they are willing to “hold rozmak” where needed, even if it costs all of their political capital? And what do they consider the core structure that should remain in place and be made more humane and beautiful?