Chores

Remember when we had actual chores?

I'm not talking about regular sissy chores, but real down-and-dirty chores.

I can distinctly remember waking up early, pulling on those old fire-fighter boots, wrapping some dingy, old (yet warm) coat around me and trudging my way to the goat barn with one of those blue plastic buckets. There you'd break apart a bale of alfalfa, you'd probably have to rummage in the hay for an old string so you could rub it against the new one and burn through it. You'd fight those momma goats away from the gate so they didn't stampede out of the pen area, and then try and separate one at a time so that you could milk them. Always being wary that they didn't step in the pail, or worse, knock it over. Momma wouldn't be happy if you spilled the milk. Repeat x3.

Then you'd drop the milk off on the porch, or take it into the kitchen and make your way next to the rabbit barn/chicken hutch/ pig pen. Each posed their own unique set of challenges, requiring a different set of skills and diligence.

An hour or so later you'd come back to the warm house smelling like animals. If you were lucky, you had time to shower before you would run down the 18 mile driveway, avoiding the mud-puddle, with wet hair in time to catch the bus. Where you would ride to school with a bunch of kids who knew exactly what you were going through, because they had just done it themselves.

A long day of Mrs. This, and Algebra that, and you'd be back home to repeat the process before dinner. Because "you don't get to eat until those animals do" can't you hear Momma saying that?

Today my day was filled with sissy chores. Vacuuming, dishes, the eternal toy pick up, and I remembered those other chores fondly. Heaven knows why.