Dishwasher

Today I am grateful for dishwashers.  I guess I must be in a bit of an appliance mode these days, but I look around my house and then watch an old, classic movie or worse, a western and I realize how good I have it.

I used to run my dishwasher every day when the kids were home.  Now I run it when we’re out of cups or plates, but rarely is it jammed full when I do.  I know, I know, I should probably just wash the dishes by hand, but with John and I passing the same viruses back and forth, the sanitation of the dishwasher seems smarter.

I actually don’t mind washing dishes.  When we lived in Jakarta, Indonesia, I was fortunate enough to have a dishwasher by the name of Ramadan.  He was my houseman.  Sounds awfully snobby, doesn’t it?  I thought so, too, at first.  When I was told to hire household staff I balked and bucked.  I didn’t need someone doing my work for me because I had plenty of time to do it myself and I didn’t really want strangers underfoot all day. Then I was informed by a couple of new Indonesian friends, that the local people felt it was the responsibility of the expatriates to hire household staff, thereby giving people jobs.  I had never thought of it that way before.  Enlightened, I hired a houseman, Ramadan; a gardener, Sutrisno; and a night guard, Sairan, all men.  Other expat women thought I was nuts, but I totally avoided the intermingling and “monthly” nonsense that many of them dealt with between female maids and other male staff.  And I had boys at home so it felt more natural to have all guys.  I had my own little Downton Abbey on Jalan Bunga Mawar street.  They disappeared just like the British staff does.

Ramadan was great.  It was a sweet life with him there to clean up after every dinner party while we spent time with guests.  He wanted to do the dishes every morning, noon and night, but sometimes I told him I would do it.  Once we had words over it, as much as the kind, gentle soul could have words.  Through his limited English and my horrible Indonesian, I finally made him understand that washing the dishes made it feel more like I was home. . .and I needed to find anything that could help me combat the loneliness.  He got it. 

Ramadan and the others became part of my family and I would love to see them again.  When dinner is over I sometimes say, “Ramdan, we’re ready for you to do the dishes”, as I rinse and load.  As my dishwasher, splashes, whirls and hums away, I think of what a luxury it is. Boy am I grateful!