Dishes
The smell of the well-water mixed with dish soap sits in my memory like a tchotchke on a shelf, covered with a glass dome. I can see it and I can almost recall the scent—it sits just out of the reach of my olfactory senses and I yearn to actually inhale the scent. But like a bubble, shimmering in the light as it floats away, reach out and touch and the orb pops—quickly and completely, almost as though it never was.
I can see it in my mind—the yellow and white dish rag, thin if unfolded fully but always folded for better scrubbing power. I used to smell the wet cloth, with the scent of soap and water from her well. It was a clean smell; mineral heavy with just a hint of sharpness. The taste and the smell were, of course, linked. There was never a more refreshing glass of water than one from my grandma’s kitchen sink.
There was a cadence to Sunday dinner—or lunch, as it were. As we arrived, Grandma would be finishing the meal, getting it into serving bowls. She would have the plates stacked and ready to be set with napkins and cutlery. One of the three of us would do this, taking pride in neatly placing forks and spoons and knives—Grandpa’s long tea spoon set next to his plate at the head of the table. Glasses—Coke glasses for us girls—set at each place, filled with ice and awaiting the instant tea, being mixed into the glass pitcher. Food was placed, places taken, and the prayer—many different words spoken but this phrase was always, always there: “…bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies…”
Post-meal, the exodus of the dishes from the table began—we all helped a bit, taking dinnerware to the sink.
First, the pre-wash: Napkins and food bits scraped into the trash; Use the rag and hot water to rinse sauces and condiments away; place dishes back on the side of the sink.
Then, she filled one side of the sink with hot, soapy water, dishes sat neatly, anticipating their baptism. And the granddaughter who was helper would either wash or rinse. Grandma would do the opposite, all the while instructing, chatting, listening, her voice tender and soothing.
“My dad would clear the table at dinner and tell us girls, I’ve already done a big part of the job for you. All you have left is to wash, rinse, & dry.”
“Make sure you scrub the edges of the plate.”
“Don’t slosh so much water as you work!”—even her exasperation was kind and tinged with humor.
Our favorite part was always the pots and pans. We were strange kids, what can I say? But Grandma’s copper-bottomed pots were cleaned very specially. After their wash and initial rinse, the powdered Cameo copper cleaner would come out. The sharp, bitter smell of chemicals hung in the air. Add a little water, and use the rag to create a soapy film covering the bottom of the pot. Rinse it clean and the shiny, stain-free copper gleamed.
The rinser was also the dryer and putt-er-away-er. Her dish towels were thin linen, embroidered with flowers by one of the ladies in her Sunday School class. No other dish towel dried like Grandma’s. Plates and all the sundry dishes were put back in their place in the cabinets, cutlery in its drawer.
I swim in sense-memory when I recall my Grandma and Grandpa, their house, their voices, their words.
I can smell the water and soap from the dishes. I can hear the scrub of the rag over the bottom of the pot. I can see in my mind the yellow curtains on the window above her kitchen sink, overlooking the backyard, the clothesline in view with the well house sitting just to its left.
But what I remember more than anything else, by far, is the kindness she taught us. Kindness and forgiveness and gentleness. If ever a life hung fertile with the fruit of the Spirit, it was hers.
She taught me how to do dishes. But the deeper lessons—acts of service, living quietly, attending to my home, working with my hands, praying, thanking, instructing, loving—these are what I want to emulate the most.
I think of these things when I wash my own dishes. I think of them as I instruct my kids. I think of them at the end of our church service each week as we ask God to “...send us out to do the work you have given us to do; to love & serve you as faithful witnesses of Christ our Lord…” Her legacy to me was this simple, constant reminder to live serving others for the sake of Christ. For me, there's no better legacy.
