Washing The Dishes

Here at the seashore we have a brand new Bosch dishwasher which for two people who go out for meals on a pretty regular basis would not see much use if it were not for the fact that we drink inordinate cups of tea, coffee, and lemonade daily, and must run the machine to get clean drinking vessels.  The Bosch is famous for making no sound as it runs, an observation that always reminds me again of life in our glass box house in Palo Alto with its not quite to the ceiling fashionable interior walls through which noise could pass with abandon, and thus we were all of us assaulted constantly by the non stop whir of dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer responding to the needs of six and often seven persons.  It sounded like a factory, well, it was in a way, I mean a family production unit.  I happen to like to wash dishes by hand, at least at this time of life when I am retired and there are just the two of us, although I set to with gusto even when we have two or four at table in Sarasota.  We have no dishwasher there, and it is entirely satisfying to soap up, sponge off, and rinse the utensils, pots and pans, and dishes we do use.  We both seem to love it, in fact, often vying with one another to be the one at the sink following a meal.  Maybe it is no more than a control issue, or that infrequent chance to do something that is of real value, always a problem for retirees particularly as they advance in age.  It also says "tidy," a somewhat ominous term I use cautiously always remembering the hilarious boozy loud gatherings of thirty or so years ago, when drinks went on longer than they should have, dinner did not seem to come out of the kitchen on time as planned, dishes sat about on table, counter, and, well, just everywhere, and everyone had a riotous good time.  Ah, those were the days.  That cohort from those party days, where are they now? dead, living elsewhere, demented, that's where.  Tidy is what I was reading about in the Times today, that is, some woman, a latter day Emily Post with books on proper behavior, and one I particularly noted, her admonition to those who would make "spontaneous" telephone calls, and she is talking about a friend calling a friend.  This is evidently becoming a universal no-no.  Email, she advises, and schedule the call ahead.  I was startled by this, only because I absolutely agreed, I who spent years of my life chatting on the phone.  But, indeed, I am dumbfounded to pick up on a call and discover it is someone I know to whom I have to respond with a demonstration of personality and the history of our mutual affection.  I've recently discovered texting.  That is as far as I want to go with riotous spontaneity.