Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Size Does Matter

Today is cleaning day.I have to do the weekly deep clean, not the daily wipe down.

Two bathrooms, two bedroom, stove fridge, dishwasher, pellet stove, vacuum sweep, polish not just dust,
Porch, doors, counter and cupboards, and if I have any life in me, tackle the draws in the kitchen, office, library, craft room, and walk in closet. |It  didn't used to be this difficult did it?

I ran across a blog that made me think.   http://camperrevamper.wordpress.com/

Ewans Truck and 5th wheel
Think about our summer days, where we can hook up the 5th wheel I sold to my son, to the Ford truck I sold to my truck and take off with Chelsea and become summer Gypsy's.

I think of the maintenance, There is limited washing to do, the morning cleanup is a green disinfectant wipe of the bathroom, dumped the lavatory, wipe counters and mop the floor.

The dishes are few and done by us both after each meal and put away, not in the dishwasher
Fresh Roast ready to cook overnight
We buy fresh and local to the area so no freezing, canning, cooking ahead.

Both Ewan and I like to cook so we share the job, enjoying how creative we can be on four burners and an oven.

Our evenings are spent exploring, visiting, taking pictures, playing a game of cards, or my personal favorites knitting or reading.

Sifton Spin-well wheel
I have a spinning wheel which rides nicely bungied to the leg of the table. It is a Spin-well so it is made to travel.
I have a tablet now so my 400 books and knitting patterns can travel in my purse. Strangely. I only need one purse and 2 pair of shoes.

Then I think of the homes I knew when I was growing up.

We had a bedroom that was kept clean because we treasured our few possessions, we looked after our clothes because it might be a long time till we got new ones. And it was a place we could entertain out same sex friends.
Comic books were  kept mint so they could be shared and pictures of loved ones or the odd film star were on the walls.

We sat at the table in the kitchen on chairs around a table and talked of our day.
 We knew if our parents were facing difficulties and we tried to help in any way we could. Mom was sick, do the laundry, pop was off colour, play quietly.
They knew what we were up to as well.Quizzes would see how far we were in school.

General conversation would let the parents know that we were feeling rejected because only 2 valentines were in our letterbox at school and one was from me.
So mom would bake a batch of sugar cookies for me to take the next day. My letterbox was overflowing from hopefuls of scoring a sugar cookie.

My brother. Grade 7 Class at Thomas Hodson in Nanaimo
When my brother was being bullied at school and picked on because of his British accent. He and dad took a walk and dad explained and demonstrated the rules of boxing according to the age old fashion of the the Marquess of Queensberry When defending ones self  and the weaker ones was a gentlemanly thing to do, not street bawls.

We had a living room where we would gather after supper if we didn't have a public speaking meeting or a 4H meeting.

These activities were enough to keep us occupied for the month. There was not the opportunity to go out every night of the week to **expand ourselves**.

My brother would lay on the floor with his text books around him and do his homework. Often asking a question that led to a story from the folks. Or asking how to spell a word, led to a discussion on were the word originated and we would use the word in past present and future tense, should it be a verb.

I would be learning the art of knitting and sewing . My brother was 6 years older than I so  when he battled the books. in Grade seven. I was in grade one and was under tutelage of Mother for the arts that were considered female n those days.

I learned to measure cut and sew, and with out a pattern. I knitted in the same way, doing a rough drawing based on my tension swatch.
Sweater I designed and knitted

I was responsible for the baking powder biscuits, though not allowed to tackle the pies.

And I would lie on my piece of floor by the stove and explored foreign lands, not on Google, but through my stamp album.

Sometimes my Dad would call me and say "Come here you, you may as well learn this."

And with black tape, a pen knife and some knowledge, I learned to safely change a plug on a lamp.
By changing fuses I learned why you didn't put a 30 amp fuse in a 15amp socket.

Even when television invaded our living room, my parents knew what we were watching, because they were with us. And they got first pick.

Dad loved the outdoors. The Gypsy in him hated the four walls. Getting dinner from the land was always an adventure, and another opportunity for stories when he exposed his Romany roots.

I found out what mushrooms could be eaten and which ones would spell your doom. We carried home baskets of  greens from the undergrowth to add to the stew pot or a salad.

But in this strange division of  responsibility it was moms job to take me berry picking.

Dinner of the hoof
I would hurry home and tell Dad, I saw sign today by Arbutus Hill.

Early next morning, we would arise before dawn and creep through the forest to Arbutus Hill where dad would hide us both near the creek. Soon a buck would appear, and for those not into blood survival, suffice to say we had fresh and salted meat for awhile.

This was in the days when our little house put us with close contact with each other. Manners were learned every day at the kitchen table. Conversation became an art on the living room floor.

Our friends were known to my parents, and  visited by the front door, or I was delivered to a friends house, possibly once a month.

We went shopping on Saturday and walked with our parents unless we had 15 cents for the matinee.

Yes there was a lot more to do, but it seemed easier, We knew how to behave and how to make do. I think the most we learned from living in a small house was that homes with Rumpus rooms, Media rooms, Recreation Rooms, Man Caves , en suite bathrooms, were not always homes. They were houses.

The bond we forged with our parents was worth all the times we got smacked in the face with wet socks and undies drying for the next day.

So their we have come from house work to home..work.

What a journey life is.

No comments: