"Domesticated"
I admit to strong opinions about politics, our national debt, the purpose of our schools and universities, gender identity, woke culture and myriad other subjects. However, when overwrought, and my pen fails me, I take a few deep breaths and pick up something comic, like a Wodehouse novel or collection of his short stories. There are over a hundred to choose from, beginning with The Pothunters in 1902 (written at age 21) and ending with Sunset at Blandings, written in 1975 (at age 93), and published posthumously in 1977. But I also try my hand at more personal essays, such as this one which I hope will provide some cheer regardless of the weather or one’s political affiliation.
Sydney M. Williams
More Essays from Essex
“Domesticated”
March 29, 2025
“I’m not very good at being domesticated. I’ve tried. The domestic
life I find claustrophobic – the rituals and habits and patterns.”
Ralph Fiennes (1962-)
British actor – Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter series
The other day, while folding my second load of laundry, with breakfast dishes still in the sink and the bed still unmade, I thought of how domesticated I have become since retiring and moving to Essex Meadows – domesticated in the sense of sharing daily chores. I don’t mean domesticated like a dog. I was house-trained before Caroline and I were married sixty-one years ago. For the first fifty years of our married life Caroline did the laundry, made the bed and cleaned up the kitchen. I assumed some of those responsibilities when we moved to our apartment in January of 2016
Domestication was not a primary consideration for my parents; both artists, they scorned traditional roles. My father did not grab his dinner pail or take his briefcase and go off for the day. And my mother did not put on an apron, clean the house and set out my father’s slippers and prepare his dinner. Nevertheless, they had rituals. After breakfast, with us on the school bus, they would head to the barn where my father milked the half-dozen goats and my mother looked after the horses. They had a small business, Red Shed Rubber Animals. My mother modeled animals out of clay and my father prepared the molds to produce a rubber animal. The house was left to care for itself, at least until my older sister turned fifteen and mastered the vacuum cleaner.
I did not inherit my parents’ artistic genes. Examples of my early talents can be seen in a falling-apart 1947 photo album in which I placed ads for Westinghouse, Mickey Mouse and Schlitz, and in a rubber dog with two legs that I had modeled in clay. It was of no surprise to my family that I became a stockbroker.
As I have grown older, my hair has become unruly, but, having been domesticated, my life has become more – if there is such a word – ruly. Now, upon waking and with no office to go to, I check the mouse traps – placed after discovering a forlorn little mouse in our washing machine (I have found none since putting them out) – take my pills, prepare and eat breakfast, glance through the newspapers, consider ideas for essays, make the bed, do the laundry on every third day, and run the dishwasher when it fills up.
Unlike Mr. Fiennes, I enjoy the regimen domestication brings, which still allows me time to use what creative skills I have in writing. While I did not exactly come from a “wild or natural state,” making beds and doing laundry were not my natural focus. First married, and in our one-bedroom second-floor apartment – where to reach the bathroom one had to crawl across the bed – Caroline took command. And I became blissfully oblivious of how the household worked – clothes placed in the hamper appeared, miraculously, a few days later in my bureau, dirty dishes were washed and back in the cupboard, floors and rugs cleaned. That has now changed.
Now, you must excuse me; I have to go. I am being told the heating vents need vacuuming.
Labels: humor, Ralph Fiennes