I was in the midst of doing some routine household chores the other day. Looking for the fastest way to get through them and onto something more fun I may have cut a few corners, going around instead of under I could hear my mother’s voice, “Sheri, don’t just give that a lick and a promise!”
I’ve been married for almost 45 years and she left for heaven 4 years ago, yet I recognized a familiar shadow coming from within my heart, admonishing me about the shortcomings of taking shortcuts. I haven’t thought of that old adage of hers in years. She didn’t invent it, but she used it often. It originated in the early 1800’s when servants would skim over a hard task to do easier ones first, promising to come back and complete it later. I don’t know about then, but now those “promises” are often broken, or at least forgotten.
I don’t remember ever saying it to my kids. They had it pretty easy. I only demanded they pick up their rooms and their bathroom. I wanted their toys put away and didn’t care how they did it, just that they did. I was savvy to when they tried to pass off clean clothes as dirty so they could just throw them in the hamper, instead of putting them away. I was young once too, you know! On occasion I threw in washing the dishes, but I don’t recall making them do the heavy lifting of scrubbing the tub and toilet. The only dusting was done by Ben. I insisted he dust his models and Star Wars figurines. They were so fragile and delicate that if I even thought to bring a duster close to them one would drop a missile, another a propeller; someone would lose their laser blaster, or a Jedi’s light saber would suddenly be MIA. From time to time some complicated character would decide to fall apart altogether and end up in a heap of alien legs, arms, and weapons on the desk! Oh my! After being chastised way too often, “Mom, stop breaking my stuff!” Ben was on his own for those. Rather than a quaint expression that left you wondering exactly what it might mean, my motto was clear and to the point, “Make it happen!” Now, if they remember it differently…well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
My mom was like others of the 60’s…Old School. If there were chores to be done we all chipped in no matter what they were. As my sisters and I remember it we were the worker bees. Mom took on the supervisory role. Hmm? I didn’t like chore day. It was always Saturday, making a serious unpleasant dent in the weekend! Weekends were supposed to be fun. Chores are not fun! If they were we would say that we “get” to do them, instead of we “have” to do them. I particularly didn’t like dusting. I found it tedious. Still do. Mom didn’t believe in feather dusters, swearing they only moved the dust around. Dusting was even more dull and never-ending when wiping down everything with a rag. Often I would dust around things, but not under them. After all, who was going to be picking them up, looking for telltale signs of residual dust? Mom was, that’s who!
An inspection always followed. My bed would be made, clothes were either hung up or in the hamper, and the floor vacuumed. Bathroom mirrors were polished, the tub and toilet were cleaned, and the trash emptied, but more often than not I failed the dusting test. “Sheri Lynn, you get back in here and do this right! We don’t just give things a lick and a promise!” Getting frustrated she would often throw down that other saying well known to many suggesting that, “If you want something done right, do it yourself”. This did not, however, indicate she was waving the white flag of surrender to my persistent lack of diligence and was actually going to do it herself. It would have been a grave mistake to assume as much.
I wasn’t convinced that dusting was worth all the effort. Growing up in the desert southwest dust managed to creep through every crack and crevasse of every window and door no matter how small, especially after a dust storm. Dusting seemed to be a battle one could never win. But, if you didn’t dust every week it wouldn’t take long before things began to look like a haunted house rather than a home. I have a friend who claims to use accumulating dust as a DIY white board, leaving messages for her family in it. Clever, I’d say! Sighing heavily, I went back to do it again. Leaving the room I could hear Mom saying, “If you don’t like doing it, do it right the first time and you won’t have to do it twice”. Yeah, I know. I just figured maybe once it might slip past her.
Those chores of my childhood are still my chores today. A time or two, maybe three or four I find myself taking those same shortcuts I tried as a kid, only this time there’s no one here to send me back to do it again, or is there? As I clean the bathroom counter, wiping around the bowl of various lotions and the basket that holds the toothbrushes instead of picking them up to clean underneath them, I hear a familiar voice that isn’t really there, “Sheri, don’t just give that a lick and a promise.” I smile into the mirror and silently answer, “I know Mom. I’ll do it right next week. I promise.” And if I don’t I know I will likely hear from her again, haunting me from heaven. Maybe a “lick and a promise” is my way of keeping her close. I can live with that.