Mom had a saying that used to drive me nuts. “If you want something done, ask a busy person.” Almost daily we heard those words as Mom hurried from one task to the next. It didn’t make sense to me. I wondered why anyone would ask a busy person for anything. In my young mind, a busy person didn’t have enough time to do her own work let alone someone else’s.

Fast forward to today. I finally understand what Mom meant. She never stopped working. She had no time for hobbies or socializing, but she always managed to do her chores. Never once did I hear her complain she was tired or worn out. She just kept going.

Some readers will remember the old days when women’s work began before sunrise and continued long after sunset. Everything was done by hand, whether pumping water for the kitchen pails, bringing in armloads of wood for the stove, or writing letters. From the smallest chore to the largest, every step taken required stamina. If a town gal married a farmer, she was in for a culture shock.

My messy trailer made me think of Mom’s mantra. Since I started writing every day, dust has gathered on bookshelves, end tables, and my desk. I won’t even look underneath my bed. I know a family of dust bunnies is busily reproducing so I won’t disturb them. Dust has settled on every knickknack, lamp, and picture frame in my living room. The floor needs vacuuming. Windows need washing.

It’s time for winter drapes to be taken down and lacy summer curtains hung in their place. Herbs await planting. The back porch needs painting, the exterior walls need a good scrubbing, my floors are begging for a summer wash, and I could write this column on the dust covering my bedroom mirror. But does any of this bother me? Well, yes, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Unlike Mom’s work, mine is centered on writing. She didn’t have time to record her thoughts other than in letters. I wouldn’t have time to write, either, if I spent my energy cooking endless meals, cleaning every nook and cranny, washing and ironing, chopping wood, and helping with the barn chores. I can turn a blind eye to housework and a yard begging to be mowed. I can concentrate on words.

If Mom were still here, I’m sure she’d tell me to stay at this computer until I’ve run out of words or out of time. I think she’d say something like, “Forget about housework. It will always be there because it’s never done.”

Mom knew what she was talking about. In the old days, women had a routine that never wavered. Each day of the week had a purpose. Housewives washed on Monday, ironed on Tuesday, mended on Wednesday, marketed on Thursday, cleaned house on Friday, baked on Saturday, and tried to rest on Sunday. At least that’s the way it was in many farm households.

Every Monday morning Mom pushed the wringer washer from the pantry to the kitchen. Before we left for school, pots and pans were filled with water and heated on the woodstove. During warm weather the kitchen was stifling as the stove was constantly fed. Monday was the only day of the week we kids didn’t want to stay home from school. Even if we were sick, we begged Mom to let us go because washday meant her attention was on the clothes, not on us. We didn’t care if we had a cold, the flu, or a belly ache. We wanted to be anywhere but home.

Clothing was divided into piles according to color. White things were washed first, then colored items, and lastly our barn clothes. The water had to be changed often, especially if Dad’s work shirts and pants were grimy from his job as an oiler on the Shamrock tug. Hot, clean rinse water was a must.

As a safety precaution, Mom never let us feed anything through the wringer when we were old enough to help with the wash during summer. Our chore was to carry laundry baskets to the front and back yards and hang the clothes on the lines. If a basket was too heavy, Mom carried it for us. We had to make sure the clothes were hanging with the wind so everything would billow and dry faster.

A brisk summer wind gave the clothes a fresh, clean scent. I always folded towels and pillowcases before putting them in the basket. My sister, Jude, had a tendency to wad up sheets and towels and stuff them in. She didn’t see the point in folding anything. That could be done on the kitchen table while she listened to the radio.

When winter arrived, most clothes were dried in the house. Dad strung lines in the front room where the Jungers heater was. The clothes might hang for two days before completely dry. If the weather wasn’t too cold, things were hung outside. If we forgot them, they froze. When we brought in Dad’s long underwear, we stood it in a corner and laughed as it thawed and slowly crumpled to the floor.

Today, Monday is just another day. Modern kids will never associate it with the dreaded washday of my youth, and they’ve probably never heard the phrase, “If you want something done.”

Editor’s note: Sharon M. Kennedy of Brimley is a humorist who infuses her musings with a hardy dose of matriarchal common sense. She writes about everyday experiences most of us have encountered at one time or another on our journey through life. Her articles are a combination of present day observations and nostalgic glances of the past.