There's one question I'm asked with great frequency regarding my little loft in downtown Bentonville, and the expressions on the faces of the curious are priceless as they process my response. I could sell tickets.
In fact, I should sell tickets. We could have a contest for the best facial contortion and the best description of that contortion. Kind of like charades.
Let's see, he put his hand to his face, now he's holding his head, it's ... it's confusion! No, wait, he's checking his hearing aids. He thinks he misheard you.
And look at that lady. She's bewildered with a touch of ... would you call that angst? Wow. The color just left her. That's it! Piqued bewilderment with the need of a fainting couch!
Closely following the questions "Do you actually live here?" and "Can I come inside and tour the joint?," I'm most often asked about the location of a single kitchen appliance.
"Where's your dishwasher?"
"I don't have one."
Without fail, I receive blank stares, followed by the assorted contortions previously mentioned, then usually requests for further clarification. As if there's another meaning to "I don't have one."
"What do you mean you don't have one?"
"I mean the only dishwasher 'round here is yours truly," I reply with a smile.
"But ... I don't understand," the processing continues as sorrow builds over the loss of the beloved machine. "I can't even imagine. Why would you do such a thing?"
It's as though I've gone too far down the simplicity trail, scaling back to a point where the hurt is too great for the general populous.
I feel the smile spread across my face and upward, crinkling my eyes.
I'm delighted.
According to Wikipedia (the modern-day keeper of all knowledge), the first reliable (albeit, hand-cranked) dishwasher was invented in 1887 by Josephine Cochrane, a wealthy American woman who never washed a dish a day in her life, but was tired of her servants chipping her china.
Yes, how frustrating that can be! Why, I just hate it when the help is so inconsiderate.
It was nearly 40 years later before the first modern dishwasher was invented by an Englishman. I have no information as to whether his servants instigated the creation.
And although William Livens' design is much the same as today's models, and while indoor plumbing and running water were becoming increasingly common, the dishwasher didn't become a hit with the public until the 1950s, and only then to wealthier families who could afford one.
As kitchens changed with the additions of wall-to-wall counter-tops and cabinetry, dishwashers were integrated alongside other appliances. By the 1970s, they were commonplace in American households.
Well, that's what Wikipedia says.
Maybe it isn't such an authority after all, because you wouldn't have known dishwashers were commonplace when I was growing up. No one in my family had a one in the 1970s.
I remember Grammy getting a standalone unit in the late 1980s and proudly wheeling it across her linoleum to connect the hose to the kitchen faucet. My mother was fit with envy over it, too. She loathed "worshin'" the dishes, but our kitchen was six feet squared with barely enough room for me and her in there at the same time, much less a dishwasher.
I was in my third year of college before I had a dishwasher and I didn't know what to do with it. So, I stored school supplies in it. The racks held binders and paper while the utensil bin wrangled pens and pencils.
My homes later had dishwashers and I put them to their conventional use.
But I've never felt it a necessity.
Even today, with more than 75 percent of American homes having a dishwasher, there's another 25 percent residing in the boat with me.
Dishes don't take but a minute if you wash them right after they're used. You need fewer dishes, too, as they go right back into the cupboard, ready for the next meal. They feel cleaner to me. No residue, streaks, leftover lipstick or dried food remnants.
While standing at the wide apron sink, lathering a plate, my mind wanders freely. I chase my thoughts out the kitchen window. Warm water flows over my hands and the little Mason jar that held my last drops of iced tea.
I did this chore with my mother, with her mother, and with her mother before that. Memories of four generations of women, standing at the sink, washing their dishes, flood over me.
It doesn't seem like a chore at all.
Let's see a box do that.
Commentary on 05/15/2014