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

Horn of Africa, trumpets of fear.

Fears of starvation, maiming, murder.

Bags of skin and bones buried near

By dry-eyed elders bereft of hope.

The very youngest are the first to go.

Time and time alone saves the rest.

Day after day, a duty must be performed—

Endlessly, day follows day—

Just to satisfy a power-hungry few.

Who protects these power-mad from revenge?

“Vengeance, sayeth the lord, is mine.”

When will vengeance be visited on them?

How much longer must we wait, Lord?

Forgive me, Lord, as I avenge my own.

The river of my youth flowed gently through,

Taking time to visit all the small coves

While leaving behind sandbars and shallows.

It almost never ran in a straight line.

In its water, as clear as the winter wind,

All small pebbles seemed in reach.

Each spring it rushed by in full flood.

It often formed small whirlpools near shore.

We had our joys, our griefs, our quiet times—

Laughing with our joys, crying in our griefs.

Now, when the river flows through my dreams,

I enjoy the best, regret the worst.

Then, like that river, I continue on with life

Taking time to visit sandbars, shallows and coves,

Savoring each touch with the river of dreams.

As a little girl, I tagged along on visits to the shoe repair shop where we found new heels, half-soles, new straps, and could request worn seams restitched. The air and shelves reeked of raw or well-worn leather, the black grease of the machines, the acrid scent of dyes, relentless dust and the sweat of the man who repaired the shoes. Always a man, though a woman now and then assisted by managing the claim tickets and payments.

Both my parents eventually called the man by his name and occasionally talked to him about his life outside of the shop. My dad once found a fellow fan of bowling. Almost all of the shoe repairmen we used were immigrants, often speaking with a slight or strong accent. This fascinated my mother who loved languages and dreamed of traveling. The last repairman I remember came from Korea. I had recently returned from a visit to Hong Kong where I had learned to say “Good Morning” in Cantonese. My mother, not knowing the origins of the gentleman, tried out the Cantonese greeting. The man’s face lit up.

“How did you know?” he asked.

Mother, totally confused, admitted the story behind her Asian speech. The man then informed her, that the sound she emitted was the same as the ancient name for his home, Korea. He was disappointed, but it remained a bonding moment for both of them.

I cared little about the repairmen. I focused on the shoes. Lined up along the shelves they sat awaiting repair or newly shined and ready for their owners to return. Some remained on those shelves, shifted from recently received to newly repaired, to waiting one week, then two, then three. Their once bright shine gathering dust, their claim tickets yellowing.

I worried about the shoes forgotten or abandoned. Would their owners ever return to take them back home? I felt sorry that the shoe man did not get paid. But the shoes held my thoughts, and suggested stories.

Some ugly styles worn only by old women, for instance, had they been abandoned in favor of newer more attractive styles or had something terrible happened to their owner who could no longer claim them? Others began their life in glamor. Did their owners have no more parties at which to dance and shine? The many work boots concerned me. Had the owners been injured on the job, or fired or found some occupation not requiring work boots?

The repairman, when asked, told me that after shoes sat unclaimed too long, he offered them to institutions who helped the poor. This news pleased me. The shoes could have another life and ease the life of someone new.

Yet, a visit to the shoe repair shop was remained sad for me. Before leaving, I always wished the long-waiting shoes a happier day and a new home.

#NationalOldStuffDay