Some photos linger in my brain until they are put to task. This picture of my granddaughter, Lydia, washing dishes is one of them. She turned 12 on this particular day and she insisted on cleaning my dishes. To make her case, she said that she would wash each dish "two or three times."
Who am I to argue when presented with such a generous offer?
Unlike Lydia, who thoroughly enjoys the process of washing dishes, I would do practically anything as a child to avoid the task. Even though I am now a fully grown adult-like person, I still feel a slight twinge of dread when faced with a pile of dirty dishes.
Oddly so, memories of my dad often surface when I'm elbow deep in dirty dishwater.
My dad was a working man in earlier years: a factory worker by day and farmer by night. Washing dishes was not something he did. But, change happens, as was the case with my mom and dad, who eventually went their own ways. Years later, I recall a time when I visited my dad and his lady companion at their home. I realized how much dad had truly changed when he cheerfully served coffee to my husband and I and talked about how he enjoyed washing dishes.