My mother, like many mothers of my youth, was a stickler for proper behavior, to say nothing of being a world-class expert on what was good for me. She told me to eat my spinach because it was good for me, or if I had some piece of uneaten food on my plate, she would remind me of people starving in Asia.
When I was a small boy, I spent some time trying to figure out how to get my leftovers to Asia until it dawned on me that there was no way I could do it.
My mother also held the view that good manners made life more pleasant, which is true. The phrase “mind your manners” echoes in my mind every time I sit down to eat in a restaurant or at someone’s home and look for the proper fork and remember not to talk when I am chewing food.
I was also taught to stand when a lady comes to the table.
My cousin Linda visited us for six weeks each summer for 10 years, during which time we had the customary disputes that seem to be endemic to kids of opposite sexes who are close in age.
If Linda and I were cleaning up after a meal, for instance, we frequently argued over the decision of who would wash and who would dry the dishes. For some reason, drying was the preferred activity. If Linda were drying, she would now and again deliberately return a clean dish to be re-washed, thus guaranteeing a halt in operations … and another argument.
My cousin never wavered in her claim that my mother spoiled me, but this false claim was balanced by the fact that my grandmother and all of the male members of the household believed that I was mean to her and they showered adoration on her.
I never met a guy who liked domestic chores, but they did them without argument and without pay.
The 14-year-old girl who lived next door swept the family patio twice a week for a fee. One day I heard her visiting aunt ask her to sweep the leaves off the driveway, and the girl told her aunt that she didn’t do driveways. That remark wouldn’t have worked for me.
I and the guys I knew, including my best friend Eddie, did lawns with push mowers, and also pulled weeds — a miserable job.
Eddie and I also dusted furniture, polished silverware, and vacuumed carpets. He told me that if he complained about doing chores, as penance, he had to drop a coin in the slot of the Jewish Relief Fund box at his temple of worship.
When my mother took out the throw rugs and hung them on the clothesline, I would beat the dust out of them with a wire beater, shaped like a large tennis racquet.
This was great therapy for releasing bad moods, and it also increased my batting average.
As a consequence of the frequency of my chores, I believe that I became one of the most skilled unpaid teenage domestic workers in my neighborhood.