SteevAK

When I was a little boy, and even when I was not such a little boy, I loved Saturday mornings. I still love Saturday mornings, though I usually sleep through all of them now. Back in my younger days I would wake up and rush to go watch cartoons. I remember Andrew and I fighting over what we would watch. He liked “Lost in Space,” which scared me. I like “Muppet Babies,” even though I loathed Miss. Piggy. Then there were the times that my brothers and I were joined by Dad to watch “Pee Wee’s Playhouse” at nine. We’d all sit on the couch watching the show, while Mom was behind us making pancakes or, better yet, french toast. Then when I got a little older, Saturday cartoons changed some, and I didn’t like them as much. I still watched them though, but I can’t even remember what I watched. Cartoons rapidly went downhill a few years back. They haven’t been the same since. Anyway, after cartoons, Mom would rush us off to do our Saturday morning chores: clean our rooms and clean the bathroom.

Then as I got even older, I stopped watching those horrible cartoons altogether. They just weren’t good anymore. The animation looked as if the cartoonists were on a constant acid trip. The plot lines were boring or stupidly outlandish. And I couldn’t identify with any of the charaters like I could with baby Gonzo. So, I stopped watching them. However, Saturday mornings were still a great time for a little boy. I remember many mornings in Alaska when we’d wake up to Mom or Dad buzzing the intercom, telling us to get upstairs for breakfast. I’d lazy fall out of bed, stumble into some clothes, and jog up the stairs. I’d flop down at the table with my rat’s nest hair and survey the pancakes or, better yet, the french toast Mom had prepared for us. If we were lucky the pancakes had chocolate chips in them. If we were really lucky, we got french toast. Our family would say grace, and then we’d suck down the food. My stomach was always very full after Saturday morning breakfasts, and I loved it. After eating we’d clear the table and then discuss what we had planned for the day. I believe, on the large part, these planning discussions were a genuine, sincere exchange of information. But, I also have the sneaky suspicion that sometimes they were a way to make Mom forget about or delay our Saturday morning chores.

There were many times that we tried to get out of our Saturday morning chores. And it is easy to see why! What little boy wants to hang around inside _cleaning_ when he could be outside in the woods building forts? And at this age, we always had a fort under construction. But Mom would transform from the Cook of Love to the horrible Taskmaster of Torment . . . or something like that. Little boys have active imaginations.
“You can’t go outside until your chores are done!”
Mom would say that line in various pitches and volumes. Usually both were high. Geez, I hated that line . . . it was almost as bad as some of the old stand-by lines that Dad used. So, we’d be stuck inside doing our slave work while the sun coasted through the sky. If it was the summer, we had less to worry about because Alaskan summer days are very long. If it was the winter, we were most unfortunate for there was only about five hours of good light. But regardless of what God’s creation looked like, Mom was busy making sure her creations cleaned up after themselves. What a drag. And she never made it easy. There were many times I believe that Mom could create dirt, dust, or messiness just by looking into a room. I would clean a room, pronounce it spotless, and Mom would just veto my declaration. She was more of a perfectionist than I was!
“Look at this! You missed this spot! Did you even clean this?!”
I hated to hear those words too because it only meant my prolonged stay under her whip of a tongue.

Oh how I hated doing those chores! They kept me from freedom! They kept me from entertainment! They kept me from my friends! I couldn’t stand cleaning the bathroom! I detested dusting! I loathed vacuuming! I had to endure this every Saturday while I lived with my parents! Yes, my hatred of the chores dug deep into the heart of my Saturday mornings.

Then the world took a lap or two or three around the sun. Now, all I do is clean bathrooms, dust furniture, and vacuum rooms. I do this from Monday to Friday. I do this for forty hours a week. This is my job.

What do I do on Saturdays? I leave everything messy and go have fun. At times, I could live without life’s ironies.