A Piedmont Porchlight Story
I’ve noticed something over the years. The most important conversations almost never happen where you expect them to. They don’t usually happen sitting around a conference table. They don’t happen during family meetings. And they sure don’t happen because somebody announces, “We need to talk.”
No… The best conversations happen while somebody’s washing dishes. I don’t know why that is. Maybe it’s because your hands are busy. Maybe it’s because nobody feels the need to look anybody else straight in the eye. Or maybe it’s because warm water and familiar work have a way of lowering the fences around our hearts.
At Mawmaw’s house, supper wasn’t officially over until the dishes were done. That wasn’t open for debate. One person washed. One person dried. Somebody else put everything away. If you happened to be the smallest fellow in the kitchen, your job usually involved carrying silverware to the drawer and trying not to drop half of it on the floor.
I was exceptionally qualified for that position. Mawmaw stood at the sink. The dishpan steamed. The smell of Ivory dish soap drifted through the kitchen. Pawpaw stood beside her with a towel over his shoulder. He wasn’t much for washing. But he could dry a plate quicker than anybody I’d ever seen.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Silence never seemed to bother either one of them. Then, out of nowhere, Pawpaw would ask something like, “How’s your sister, Myrtie, getting along?” Mawmaw would answer. That would remind her of somebody else. Which reminded Pawpaw of something he’d forgotten to mention.
Before long they’d wandered through half the families in Calhoun County without either one of them realizing it. The funny thing was, nobody gossiped. Not really. They simply kept up with people. Who’d had surgery. Whose crops were looking good. Who needed somebody to carry supper over. Who’d finally gotten that new baby to sleep through the night. Looking back, I reckon that kitchen sink knew more about kindness than any place in town.
Sometimes the conversations got a little deeper. Not because anybody planned them. Because dishes take time. One evening I remember asking Pawpaw why some folks had more money than others. He didn’t answer right away. He kept drying a dinner plate while Mawmaw rinsed another. Finally, he handed the plate to me.
“Put that one away.” I did. By the time I came back, he was still thinking. “You can count money,” he said. “But you can’t count being rich.” That puzzled me. Mawmaw smiled without ever looking up from the sink.
“I know people with big houses that ain’t got near as much as some folks with little ones.” That was the end of the conversation.
Or so I thought. Truth is, I’ve been thinking about it for sixty years. Funny how wisdom slips into your life. It rarely arrives standing behind a pulpit. Sometimes it comes wrapped in a damp dish towel.
These days, most kitchens have dishwashers. Push a button. Walk away. I appreciate the convenience. My back appreciates it even more. But every now and then I wonder what we’ve traded for all that efficiency.
Nobody stands shoulder to shoulder anymore. Nobody dries while somebody else washes. Children don’t get handed a spoon and told, “Put that in the third drawer.”
Those little conversations, the ones that wandered wherever they pleased, don’t have quite as many places to happen. Every now and then I’ll wash a few dishes by hand anyway. Not because I have to. Because something about warm water and a quiet kitchen slows the world down.
Sometimes I catch myself talking out loud. Mostly to nobody. Or so it seems. Every once in a while, I can almost hear Mawmaw say, “Hand me that platter, honey.” Then Pawpaw’s voice follows. “Dry that one good.”
For just a second, I’m standing in that kitchen again. A little boy with wet hands and a dish towel far too big for him. Learning things nobody ever intended to teach. I’ve come to believe families aren’t built only around dinner tables. They’re built afterward. When the meal’s over. The chairs are pushed back. The sink fills with warm water. And somebody says, “I’ll wash if you’ll dry.” That may not sound like much. But if you’re lucky, it’ll be enough to carry a lifetime of conversations.
And if you ask me…
That’s a mighty good bargain for a few dirty dishes.
CALHOUN COUNTY???????? What state????
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Hi Vero, it’s Calhoun County, Alabama. All the Piedmont stories take place there.
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Cool!!! Thank you!!
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There’s a Calhoun County in West Virginia. I thought you might be talking about it.
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No, but I love West Virginia. Google told me that there are eleven counties in the US named Calhoun.
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Awesome!!!! Thank you so much for doing that research. I was wondering how many there were!
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Maybe that’s why we didn’t get a dishwasher until our son was a senior in high school! I wonder what he’d have to say about it. (My younger sister Gloria refused to dry the dishes–meaning also putting them away, but she wouldn’t start washing until Mom had everything scraped and stacked and was running the water into the sink. I’d threaten to start washing and Gloria would finally show up.)
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I’ve had a washdisher most of my post-navy life. Still, I like washing by hand. Unfortunately, because of my poor back, I can’t wash more than a few pieces at a time. A sinkful would take all day and incapacitate me for a week.
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We would go to Thanksgiving dinner in Cullom a small town. It was my cousins house and the kitchen was large. I was a kid so I would go play but my mom helped with dishes. She learned everything!
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Thanks for stopping by, Karla! The sink was definitely a learning place, wasn’t it?
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It sure was but they had a television so that men would go watch whatever game was on in the living room primarily woman doing the small-town gossip.
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That’s what I remember from my childhood. Meal finished, the menfolk migrated to the living room for hte football, out to the front porch for cigarettes and man-gossip, and a few sneaked out back, behind the shed to try to get to the bottom of a pint of whiskey. But, the women! Oh, they had a high ol’ time gossiping and laughing as they did the washing up.
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I remember my mom and dad washing and drying dishes while I played with a toy under the kitchen table. A quote from my dad that I still remember, “A good dryer never returns a dish.” That wa sin response to my mom saying he had missed something in the wash.
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Oh, that’s a good one, John! I like the way your Dad thinks.
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😀
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We use paper dishes to solve the problem 😁
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Bless her heart, Mawmaw would NEVER allow paper plates in our house. She said it was a waste of good money. I can still hear her: “Waste not, want not, for what you waste, you’ll want!” She lived by that motto.
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Ok
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It must have been a good dinner at your Mawmaw’s house, Jim, and you had a nice job of putting the silverware away. That you had your favorite conversations while the dishes were being washed is very interesting.
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Breakfast, Dinner, and Supper were always good at our house. Mawmaw was an amazing cook. Listening to the womenfolk gossiping and howling with laughter is a memory I’ll take to the grave.
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Good, Jim!
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A very good and true story
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Thank you so much!
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