One of my favorite family stories from my mother’s childhood took place on a sunny day, probably in summer or during a school break when all the kids were home. Some of the details are provided by me, but the basics have not been changed.
Her father arrived home for his midday meal to find his daughter crying. She was perched on the long oak staircase to the second floor. Beside her was a bucket of soapy water and in her hand a scrub brush.
“Why are you crying?” her father asked.
Surprised, she looked up at him where he stood tall above her. Realizing he was waiting for her answer, she wiped her eyes against her arms because her hands were wet from scrubbing. She pointed out the window to the yard where her three brothers were playing ball.
“They get to play outside while I have to scrub the steps,” she said as she sniffled and tried not to start crying again. Margaret, born second in her family, was a tomboy and enjoyed besting her brothers in games when she could. “It’s not fair,” she added.
Her father marched through the dining room, passing the table already set with china, the food ready to be eaten and then on through the kitchen. A moment later, Margaret heard her father as he spoke to her brothers.
“Didn’t you see your sister in there scrubbing the steps?” The boys stopped playing. They could tell their father was angry with them, but their answer was just a shrug. Except for the oldest, Richard.
“Yes,” he said truthfully, but it was clear he did not see why this knowledge would make his father unhappy with him.
At the time of this story, all the children attended elementary school. Custom dictated girls to assist in the housekeeping, not boys. I assume they had chores of some sort that related to the home. Perhaps they did yard maintenance, assisted in keeping the exterior surfaces rinsed down and painted when necessary.
One of Margaret’s younger brothers did brag once about stirring the large outdoor kettle of his mother’s homemade ketchup while it cooked. Since this was considered a treat by the entire neighborhood, it is hard to think of this activity as a chore.
“Why aren’t you in there helping your sister?” The boys had no answer to their father’s question. “I want you to go in there right now and get to scrubbing those steps.” He pointed the way and the boys trooped unhappily into the house picking up extra brushes as they passed through the kitchen to relieve Margaret of her bucket and scrub brush.
“You should be ashamed of playing while she is working,” her father continued as he followed them inside. “In the future when you see your sister working in the house, I expect you to help her. Is that understood?”
The boys all nodded their heads. They looked sorry, too, but not all looked ashamed.
“Come with me, Peggy,” her father said, calling her by her nickname, as he headed back to the dining room. Margaret followed, glancing back at her brothers to let them know she was sorry if only with a look.
When they arrived at the table, her father pulled out a chair, “Sit down. Eat lunch with me.”
Eating at the dining table was a privilege, an honor Margaret did not feel she had earned. She sat, but she could see her brothers working on the stairs.
“Eat your lunch,” her father was looking at her. He had not started to eat.
“Bert, your food is getting cold,” her mother told him.
Margaret did not want to be at the table. She wanted to be with her brothers or for things to be back as they were before her father came home. She did not want to eat, did not think she could while she felt so guilty about her brothers. She never expected her father to react as he had.
Her father waited, not eating.
Margaret realized he would wait until she began to eat. Lowering her head to hide how she felt, she slowly picked at her meal. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her father begin on his meal.
Margaret did not enjoy her food.
Later, her mother would scold her for delaying her father’s meal. “He might have been late returning to work,” she said, a fact which every child knew was an offense that could cost a man his job.
Her mother saw nothing wrong with the boys playing while her daughter helped to clean the house. She thought her daughter should be ashamed for making such a fuss about doing what she was expected to do.
Years later, Margaret would relate this story as an example of how her father was different from many men of that era. Time and again, he would by his words and actions instruct his family in the equality of males and females. It was a lesson she passed onto her children.
#siblingsday
