Washing and Remembering

Well, a part has to be ordered for our dishwasher, so I went down to the local hardware store and asked the young assistant if they had a plastic tub for the kitchen  sink.  He had no idea what I was talking about, but together we searched and found two. They were stacked one on top of another and were filled with various items.  This hardware store is always stuffed to the brim, so in the process of freeing the tubs several items were knocked over, much to the chagrin of the assistant. I think this must happen in that store a lot. I decided that while I was there, I would purchase a new mop.  I will tell you that I have used both items today with some success.   

 

The first dishwasher I ever saw was a portable one that resided in the first house my family lived in on the ranch. Mother did not use it much, but  I liked it.  It had to be hooked it up to the kitchen faucet. The kitchen was small so it took up a fair amount of room. It's top was translucent, so I could watch the fascinating process of the dishes being washed. I remember the machine was rather loud, but I liked that as well.  However, when a new house was built for us, that kitchen included a permanently installed dishwasher.  Suddenly Mother had the mindset that any kitchenware that was not dishwasher safe simply had no place in our world. If something came out of the dishwasher less than spotless, she would say, "Oh, well, it is clean dirt." About that time, she also decided that any article of clothing that could not go into the dryer and come out wrinkle free was destined for the rag bin.  The modern age was underway.    

 

So many of my memories stir when I am in the kitchen. I think about this as I ponder those whose minds are fading.  I believe that as we lose our engagement with our daily routines, a vital connection begins to unravel. Most people need to feel useful, and today I am thinking that the use of our hands may play a more important role than we realize.  Yesterday, one of our volunteer pianists and I were on a memory care floor. We had just finished our hymn sing, and she was softly playing as I was saying good-bye to each of those gathered with us when a new resident walked in and sat close to where I was standing. He said, "This beautiful music has awakened me. She plays with her heart." I agreed with him and asked him if he, too, played.  "Not any more, but I used to play piano and organ."  One of the assistants quietly said, "Yes, he does play beautifully."  We talked about his children and some of his friends, where he used to work and where he went to college. Hopefully, he will continue to play. We need one another's deep connections. These are the paths, yes to our minds, but also to our collective souls.  

 

My friend, you and I shall remain strangers unto life, 

And unto one another, and each unto himself, 

Until the day when you shall speak 

And I shall listen

Deeming your voice my own voice; 

And when I shall stand before you 

Thinking myself standing before a mirror.   

Kahlil  Gibran

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