My 86-year-old father, who is not what you would call a do-it-yourselfer, is nevertheless not a stranger to machines. Over a 50-some year career, he designed and oversaw the installation of conveyor systems in a number of businesses. Yet he is completely mystified by the machines in his own house.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
"Have you ever used this washer and dryer before?" he asked, as if only certified experts should be allowed near them.
I informed him that washers and dryers were pretty much all the same. "Really?" he said in surprise. He thought about this. "But your brother's, now HIS look like some space-age thingies."
I acknowledged that his were probably a little more difficult to operate than the average washer and dryer. My father seemed to feel affirmed that there did exist some household machines that were a little more complicated. And glad that he wouldn't be asked to tackle them.
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