"When I was young, I had the body of a Greek god," my foster father once remarked to me. "Now I just have the body of an old Greek," he added, acknowledging his advancing years.
Early Lessons in Michigan
At age fifteen, I resided with John and Ruth in their mobile home situated on property near Boyne City, Michigan. Before settling in this northern region, John had served as a fire marshal in the Detroit area.
"During our time downstate, I instructed youth through an NRA program and consistently observed that girls typically demonstrate superior natural aiming ability compared to boys," John explained after teaching me to handle a .22 rifle. True to his observation, like many female participants he had coached, I displayed immediate proficiency.
In retrospect, I feel sorrow that I wasn't able to remain permanently with John and Ruth. We maintained connection for numerous years before eventually drifting apart, yet they often surface in my recollections. Recently, while pressing laundry, I recalled John mentioning how he had grown to appreciate washing dishes—a task he previously detested throughout most of his life.
"The heated water provides relief for my arthritic joints, and I enjoy gazing through the window at birds and various creatures emerging from the forest," he described.
Domestic Routines and Evolving Perspectives
My own ironing station overlooks the sandstone foundation of my residence—a different vista than Michigan's woodlands, yet not disagreeable. Now at an age the French might term "d'une certain âge," I comprehend John's sentiment. Among our many conversations, his newfound satisfaction with dishwashing remains particularly memorable.
According to my mother, children's principal role involved maintaining household order, and I upheld her home meticulously for years. As a heavy smoker, she left an orange film on all glass surfaces, which I cleaned weekly before dusting furnishings. Carpets received vacuuming multiple times weekly; the kitchen was scoured each night. Weekend ironing sessions included my stepfather's work shirts—long-sleeved dress garments worn daily. Evenings would see him change into short-sleeved or flannel shirts depending on weather. My ironing method proceeded systematically: beginning with the collar's underside, moving to the yoke, then sleeves, and finally the shirt's three main sections, paying special attention to the placket. Each pressed shirt was hung, followed by eleven more, plus trousers and pillowcases.
While my mother's dwellings maintained impeccable cleanliness, they simultaneously felt unwelcoming. Although trained for orderly environments, I've learned that tidiness and warmth can coexist. Before my first child reached school age, I encountered "Shelter for the Spirit: How to Make Your Home a Haven in a Hectic World" by Victoria Moran. This work—blending elements of organizational methods, spatial harmony, and inviting aesthetics—shaped how my homes subsequently appeared and felt. A longtime companion recently counted my residences since our college years.
"You've established at least seven homes, each of which I've admired," she noted. "Might you assist me with mine?"
My friend recently purchased a small Philadelphia property where she's resided over twenty-five years, now living alone for the first time. I promptly agreed and visited last week.
Embracing Solitude and Simple Pleasures
Increasing numbers of American women beyond fifty are choosing solitary living—a circumstance both my friend and I unexpectedly find gratifying. Our homes regularly host companions and family, yet we equally value when they depart. I cannot remember previously experiencing such contentment inhabiting a snug space arranged exactly to my preferences.
Ironing for my mother once felt burdensome, partly due to its hour-long duration. Presently, I never press shirts, as professional cleaners achieve superior results. However, because I favor pure cotton bedding, I iron pillowcases and the top edges of sheets to ensure smoothness. I also use fabric napkins, all pressed after drying on a metal rack.
Standing in my basement smoothing linens offers respite from daily commotion. This familiar ritual, repeated for decades, allows my mind to meander peacefully. My serene delight in puttering about, tending my home, reflects age-related changes similar to those my foster father described long ago. Achievements hold less importance than in youth, while daily sensations and modest gratifications gain significance. I'm discovering that aging brings considerable contentment.
