Jane Helps

               Housework.  Mother was a fortunate young lady.  Her mother had “Help.”  My mother experienced the luxury of housework delegated to others as she grew up.  When life changed for Mother and she alone was the housekeeper at her own home, she drafted me as her “help.”  Not good.

               Last night I folded sheets as they came warm from the dryer.  I folded them without help. This task reminds me of my mother who disliked everything related to housework. When time came for dusting, vacuuming, carpet sweeping, or sheet folding, she threw a dust rag at me, taught me to empty the carpet sweeper, and grumbled, “Get over it.” I prepared for a rumble when it was time for sheets.

               Later in our childhood, Mother hired Aileen to help clean the house and do the laundry.  At first, while Aileen was still spry and able, this arrangement worked well.  I rested easier with Aileen around, but when many tasks were on the cleaning agenda, sheets went to the bottom of the list.  And, I was on the hot seat.

                Mother did not want wrinkles in the sheets, so she developed a method to minimize that possibility. She and her helper (me) would hold opposite ends of the sheets.  I’d follow her lead as to bringing the ends together in the middle.  I performed this task relatively well until the final stages of the routine. 

                   SNAP!  Mother would whip her wrists and lower arms to snap tight the folded sheets prior to the last do-si-do.  Problem was that her SNAP! carried such power that she yanked the partially folded sheet out of my hands and onto the floor.  Heaven Forbid! We’d try it again; and again, my end would fall to the floor amid shouts, “Hold on to your side.”  I’d grab the edges into my fist, wadding the ends.  “Just quit!” Really? “Maybe you could get Daddy to help you.”  She glared at me and I’d adjust my ends and my attitude.

                One of the many skills I learned at college was sheet folding 101, a skill accomplished by one person, taught by Judi Johnston Ferguson, my room mate. I excitedly tried to teach Mother this new skill, one she did not appreciate. After all, Aileen had become less able. 

              “Miss Margaret, you know I gets dizzy.  I’ll hold the ladder. You climb right up there.” So Aileen gave direction as Mother dusted the window sills and the ceiling fan blades.

              Mother would remark when Daddy came home, “I’m exhausted.  We’ll have to go out to dinner.”  He’d reply, “Aileen must have come today!  Get in the car.”