Having eaten breakfast, whether hot cereal or an alternative, we would often fall upon the task of washing and drying the morning dishes. Neither of us minded chores. I have often witnessed people who so rebelled against performing a simple task that in the time they wasted voicing their complaints the chore could have been accomplished completely. When one's mind is filled with happy thoughts, work takes on an entirely different perspective, and mindless tasks give one time to think. I am not attempting to say that, with the proper attitude, work is always entertaining and fun, yet protests only serve to multiply the weight of a potentially simple task.
Helping with the chores at home also gave me a sense of usefulness and made me glad that I was able to be productive in certain respects. I have no regard for those who will, in the name of ill health, sit idly by and observe others do all the work, when they in fact are yet quite capable of doing it themselves. Laziness as a result of illness is in itself a severe malady. It is also an enormous character flaw which speaks loudly of the one thus afflicted. . . more so, perhaps, than the person realizes; slovenliness wins no friends. I have also discovered that laziness begets more laziness; it is a weed with far reaching roots that thrives on itself and holds one imprisoned. It is wise to guard against this behavior, lest one be transformed into a useless heap of flesh and blood, for its seeds lurk within even the most industrious of people, and cheat them of life. Thus, whether in unison or alone, the dishes were done, thereby lessening Dad's workload to a degree. Dad's retirement moved him to exercise the household chores on the main floor (although this did not include the preparation of meals), while I maintained the upper. Group cooperation helped everyone, even though Mom could still be seen flitting about the house on weekends, pushing this and poking that; her activity was compulsive. Even her work as a teacher was better described as "full-time and a half."
Our mailman had the accuracy of a Swiss watch. Each day, whether glorious or gloomy, the telltale moan of the mailbox lid would resound at exactly 9:30. Then, if one was quick, he could be seen striding away at a brisk pace, already two houses up the avenue.
Having developed a keen interest in stocks and futures, Norm generally received the majority of the day's hoard, and the brokers barraged him with a large round of literature and calculations proving that their firm was where money could be made. Unceremoniously sorting through his various letters, he then would bound upstairs to read the Wall Street Journal, disappearing, for all practical purposes, at least an hour.
I also looked forward to the coming of the mail, although I didn't receive much of interest aside from an occasional letter. The remainder of my mail, like that addressed to Norm, were attempts to direct my money into the hands of others; while his letters requested money for investment, mine were in the form of catalogs and most of which could not be classified as an investment, but rather, an accumulation of commodities to be purchased. Junk mail, however, was better than none.
The noon hour sent Norm downstairs again, and the three of us visited for a while before again pursuing our own interests. Afternoon would find Dad bustling around the house, fixing one of the numerous household maladies, peering under the hood of a car, or during outdoor months, maintaining the yard. Norm could usually be seen dozing in a lawn chair, strategically positioned for the best view and the most sunshine. Even frigid temperatures would not keep him indoors if the sun was poking its face out of the clouds, for he would don boots and a snowsuit (or "Pepto-Bismol suit" in his opinion, since such attire appeared to bloat the individual thus clad) and, lawn chair in tow, trudge faithfully to his choice location in the snow. He also managed to take a daily stroll in the woods behind our house. No season would keep him away, whether the woodland carpet consisted of spring flowers or newly shed leaves. The contentment on his face was obvious; the simple, honest life yielded remarkable returns.
I spent my newly acquired free time in much the same manner as did Norm. Although I never frequented the snow-covered landscape even in a sedentary fashion, I did make the most of the other seasons, with autumn topping the list. I loved to watch the leaves cascade to the ground, and listen to the eerie rustling of wind through the trees. It was as if the world was filled with sound, a veritable grand finale before the penetrating hush of winter.
When the weather did not lend itself to lounging amongst the trees, I entertained myself by scanning through photography or nature books. Having parted only recently with the demanding curricular schedule of college, I shunned literature for a time, electing instead subjects which could easily be laid aside without risking an interruption of a thinly-woven plot.
During the hours before Norm set off to work, I always made myself accessible for conversation without being an imposition on his space or freedom. Anything I was doing could be finished later if he desired to talk, and consequently, we often sat over a cup of tea and pursued various topics of interest. The subject itself never mattered, for the companionship was the delight. The atmosphere we shared was unlike all others. Receptive to the same mode of thought, the flow of conversation was easy and unhindered.
Near 3:00 p.m. Norm would rise from his chair with an accompanying, "Well, better shove off. . ." and grasping his lunch bucket, paced out the door to his car. After he had gone I did those things which our conversation had delayed. Chores and other functions always waited to be done; dust is very patient, and can easily be put off for an hour or two!