After I fed the chickens I would go to the cupboard under the sink and get the soap and a bucket. I would walk out to the well and fill the bucket full of water and carry the bucket all the way back to the kitchen. I would break off a piece of the soap and let it dissolve into bubbles in the water. I’d carry the heavy bucket into the foyer and start scrubbing at the front door. I had a brush and a rag to wash with. The rag would swipe away the bubbly lather that the brush created.

While the chore took from a little after two all the way to five thirty, and made my back ache and my arms burn, it was my favorite chore. The marble floors of the foyer extended from the front door to the two side display rooms, down the corridor for the men’s entertaining parlor, the smoking room, the cards room, the dish room, the way to the greenhouse and one of the ways to the kitchen. These closed doors marked the boundaries of where I had to scrub.

One might think it was torture, but I enjoyed it. When I scrubbed, I sang.