There were five kids in my family and when we were growing up, chores were a part of the routine, for everyone.  No matter your age or skill you had assignments.  It wasn’t to contribute to your allowance. It wasn’t to earn an extra dessert at dinner.  It wasn’t to get credit toward a special toy.  It was none of those things. It was because everyone in the household was expected to contribute.  No debate.

The range of chores varied. Sometimes it was yard work, often it was picking up clutter or taking out garbage. The one I hated the most was vacuuming the steps.

There was a long flight of steps from the basement up to the living room which got a lot of traffic.  The carpet was an old-school shag that managed to hold dirt with tenacity.  We had a small hand vacuum that was the tool of choice and when Mom took it from the closet, I would make myself scarce.  Mom, however, was not easily fooled. As soon as I stepped around the corner, she plopped that vacuum into my hands, nodded her head and declared, “You know what to do, and no short-cuts.”

There was no room for rebuttal.  I headed to the bottom of the steps, plugged in the vacuum and got started.  Just to keep me entertained, my brothers would pick this time to stomp up the steps; their faces covered with a grin, their feet covered with dirt and dust.

My goal was to make it to the top step as fast as I could and get the vacuum back in the closet.  I knew Mom was handling about six different things, so I figured I had a pretty good chance.  What I didn’t count on was Dad.  I was just finishing the last step when he walked through the basement door.

“Vacuuming the steps, I see.  Doing a good job?”

I smiled and nodded, still anxious to get that vacuum back in the closet.

“You know,” offered Dad, “It’s important to do good work, even when the job doesn’t seem to matter much.”

“Geez, Dad, I know that.  It isn’t like you haven’t said it a thousand times.”

Dad watched me reach toward the plug.  “Well, let’s just check your work, since you seem to think you’re finished.”

He quietly pulled a pristine handkerchief from his jacket pocket; seams crisp and folded neatly. I knew what was coming.  He took the handkerchief, wrapped it around the head of the vacuum and headed to the bottom stair.  After only one swipe across the carpet, he showed me the result.  It was covered with dust and dog hair.  Before I could make excuses, he went up two stairs and did it again.  No better.

There was nothing left to say.  He handed me the vacuum, and I trudged back to the bottom of the stairway.

“When you’re done, let me know and we can check your work together,” he offered with a smile.

That was it. It took me three tries but the stairs ended up cleaner than they had been in months.  I’d like to say that from then on, I never cut another corner on a task, but that wasn’t exactly true.

Still, the lesson stayed with me and sometimes when I knew I’d been lazy I’d get an image of Dad wrapping his pristine handkerchief around that vacuum cleaner and I would go back to work. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was respect, or maybe it was just growing up.