<p>Why is it that when work has an element of joy it isn’t work at all, but when you remove the joy, the same work that was once a delight becomes a chore?</p>
<p>Take laundry. Please.</p>
<p>There are three grands in the playhouse in the backyard when one of them announces they have spilled on the tablecloth.</p>
<p>She had a vested interest in the tablecloth; she helped sew it. They can all sew a straight line, which means they are now on a skill level with their grandma.</p>
<p>“Can I wash this?”</p>
<p>“You want to do laundry?”</p>
<p>The concept is foreign to me.</p>
<p>“Yes, the old way.”</p>
<p>“You mean a top-load machine?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“You mean a wringer washer?”</p>
<p>A blank stare.</p>
<p>“The old way. Like on the prairie.”</p>
<p>I returned from the house with an old washboard that hangs over the washer and dryer.</p>
<p>She is delighted. Thrilled. Ecstatic. Who doesn’t jump up and down at the prospect of scrubbing something out by hand with a tub of cold sudsy water and an old washboard?</p>
<p>So, there she is going to town with the tablecloth and the washboard, having a wonderful time, and I am having a wonderful time sitting in the shade watching her work. That’s probably one of my favorite elements of work — watching someone else on task.</p>
<p>My very favorite element of work is listening to someone else vacuum. Music to my soul.</p>
<p>There’s a pattern here, isn’t there?</p>
<p>She finishes the tablecloth and announces her dress needs washing. She dashes to the house to put on some old clothes from the “emergency” drawer and begins washing her dress.</p>
<p>Her sister announces that her dress needs washing, too.</p>
<p>The desire to work has now grown contagious. If only we could package and market this fervor.</p>
<p>Another sister announces she wants to wash something the old way, but must be in costume. She dashes inside and returns wearing a long dress, a straw hat and an apron that belongs to Raggedy Ann.</p>
<p>They have all had turns at the washboard and announce they need to dry their wet things.</p>
<p>“Just throw them over the chairs on the patio,” I say.</p>
<p>“Don’t you have rope and those pincher things?”</p>
<p>Isn’t that how it goes? You sanction cutting corners and someone wants to go for authenticity.</p>
<p>We string the rope from one end of the hammock frame to another and voila, a portable clothesline.</p>
<p>Their dripping wet articles flap in the breeze and they push the hammock around the yard to follow the sun.</p>
<p>Later that night I retrieve their things from the clothesline. The small tablecloth and little dresses are stiff, as are most things that dry in the wind.</p>
<p>At 10 p.m., I push a few buttons on the washing machine and toss their tiny things in with a load of towels.</p>
<p>It’s not a chore; it’s a delight.</p>
