Homemaker

My grandma was a member of a homemaker’s club.

I remember seeing this as a nine-year-old, in a church bulletin or a town publication or other, but I never asked her about it, unlike the time I peered up at her and said, “Grandma, were you gay when you were younger?”

She looked down at me, a bit dumbfounded.

“Well, I’m not really sure what you mean,” she said.

“Laura Ingalls Wilder was always writing about how she was happy and gay,” I said. “You’re from the Olden Days, too. So, were you gay?”

“Ohhh,” she said, now understanding. “Well, I suppose I was.”

My grandma’s house made me long for the days of home-baked bread, of sewing, of making things by hand. “Homemaker:” what did it mean?

Grandma showed us how to make monster cookies. She showed me how to make dish towels out of a flower sack. She walked around with me in her backyard, pointing out which plants in the cracks of the sidewalk were weeds, and which were trees.

She had an old Singer sewing machine, and there was a drawer that was full to the brim with buttons of all colors, shapes and sizes.

We’d bring her our artwork, and she would paste it to the walls - literally - with toothpaste.

In her dining room, there was a candy dish with jelly beans, and ample time to snitch one or two.  

My dad would bring us there on a Saturday, to the little town close to the South Dakota border where he grew up, which to us kids was a magical place. So magical that, on a day he planned to go there alone, we hid for at least an hour in the closet of the camper, hoping to stow away there with him. At Grandma’s house, we never knew who might drop by, what might be cooking, which uncle or aunt we might see.

It’s hard to say now why it was magical. Maybe because the pace was slower. Maybe because of the air of possibility the farm had - things to explore, things to make, things to learn.

My mom’s idea of cooking could be memorialized in one line: “You cook for hours, and then it’s all gone in 5 minutes!”

“Homemaker” is a word she wouldn’t be caught in the same room with.

My mom’s pride, instead, in learning how to operate the tractor, to fix the washer or dryer without needing to call someone - to change the water softener, to keep the yard clean and maintained - is what I remember.

During the summer, my mom wore a visor cap, short shorts, and pulled her hair up in a clip, and sat all day outside on the tractor. She stopped for a beer with our parish priest.

I remember her witty banter with the milkman, the garage door guy, the guy who came and sprayed our lawn. She kept up - she showed she knew as much as they did. She would not be a “helpless housewife, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.”

It’s hard to say what I’ve inherited of this homemaker stuff.

I saw my grandma as a cook, a baker, a sewer, the stereotypical forties housewife.

Later, I found out that she was one of the first women in the area to teach at school after her marriage. That the cooking and baking we saw her do was because we were her grandkids and she saw it as a way to spend time with us. She was a “careerwoman” in her day.

But she did all that with five kids. And was part of a homemaker’s group.

Now about a month married, I find myself thinking about the meaning of homemaker: is it a term that I am drawn to or something I shrink from?

In the past weeks, John and I have started to build our new home. We walk into it, each with expectations in the dusty corners of our subconscious minds, each with memories, overlapping shadows of the men and women in our pasts, and how we see our own vocation through the filmy lens of our parents, grandparents. We are figuring out what it is to be a husband and wife, what it is to be homemakers. We have no clue.

I see myself eager to do piles of laundry, to keep dishes in the dry rack and not on the other side, to prep the dinner we will have so that it’s ready right on time, to make sure the bed gets made every day. I crave order in all things - to pray together at night, to always fold and put away the clothes right away.

There is some compulsion in me that says “homemaker” means “perfect house.” Where did that come from? Who am I trying to please?

Yesterday I looked up from the sink and thought - while I feel satisfied by the idea of a perfect house, it doesn’t bring joy. Having all the dishes in their place, having the dinner right on time, it’s like earning a sticker for the day. But not joy. Why not?

I think it’s because “perfect house” is too much about me getting it right. It tips the scales in favor of performance, winning. It’s too much about me being the god of my little world.

Anytime I’ve experienced joy, it’s been because of a sense that God knows me so much better than I know myself. It’s been because of a realization that I’m not in control, and that’s just as it should be. It’s been a sense that I am deeply loved, not for the perfection, but for the entire sloppy conglomeration that is me. It’s a sense that my messy world, just as it is, is loved. This myth of the “perfect home” as a way to be a homemaker isn’t ringing true.

I think this time seems a particularly confusing time to be a homemaker.

But is that true? My grandma got married at age 30, around 1936. She married a farmer but prefered to teach. The war happened. Women had careers for a while, and then the men came home and wanted their jobs back, and then it was all about women being the ideal homemaker, which meant cooking, cleaning, and dressing awesomely, all with a smile on their faces.

My mom got married in 1979, a nurse who met my dad in the ICU, working alongside him. She had watched her mom wait for hours keeping supper hot for my dairy farmer grandpa, and vowed that such subservience would not be her life. She came of age during second wave feminism.

She raised 8 kids doing the dance of after school activities, keeping Hamburger Helper and Dinty Moore Stew in the pantry, being nurse/chauffeur/mechanic/teacher/secretary and much more, all in one. She was a stay-at-home mom while railing against the traditional housewife role all along.

And now there’s John and I, married in 2017. This is a time where our culture has rapidly abandoned traditional home roles. Women right now, I think, feel pressure to be perfect in their careers and at home. Meanwhile, I see more fathers sitting in on piano lessons than I ever have. We’re all tiredly fighting the encroachment of electronic devices. We’re feeling drawn to the basics, to tiny homes, to shedding all of our stuff. What does it now mean to make a home?

“Homemaker,” while having different cultural expectations at different times, has probably never been a crystal clear concept for anyone who attempted to be one personally.

But when I think about what I’d want a home to be, here’s what it is:

I’d like home to be a warm place, an inviting place. A good place to go back to. A place to rest. A joyful place.

What makes home an inviting place?

Food. I hate to say it. It’s the last thing my mom would say is important. But I think it is. Having something that smells and tastes good, something that unites you as a family, something central like family dinner, that helps create a home. Because it grants space to other important things - conversation. Sharing your day. Sharing time together.

A sense of being cared for - and this is probably where chores come in. Chores, when properly ordered, are a means to an end - the end being to show love, and to receive love. It’s a little more pleasant getting into a made bed than an unmade one. To know you have clean clothes, and knowing the rooms aren’t total disasters, brings restfulness and peacefulness. It’s important to recognize the proper "why" behind chores.

Friends. One thing John and I have both noticed is how nice it is to be able to invite friends into our new home. Outside friendships make home a good place to be. They enrich it with the gifts, experiences, and stories they bring. It’s fun to be in a place with a history of good memories.

Being a little world in itself. A family is the most basic unit of society. We should work to ensure that we have a small society that, when brought into larger society, helps make it better. That involves working hard to do the things we want to see more of in society as a whole. We need to make sure we are kind to each other. That we listen to each other. That we are honest with each other. That we help one another.

Reality. This last thing is on my mind after a week or so of attempting to create “the perfect house.” Reality is, I’m not perfect. Every single time I follow this compulsion to its natural conclusion, it leads to me feeling more distance and alienation from John and others. I think a good home life involves doing your best to be your best, but relaxing and accepting who you really are as well.

So… homemaker. Let’s see how this unfolds.