Even before Christmas (sorry for those who don't celebrate it, I just use holidays as a time reference), she would say that she went over there and the house was filthy. At X-mas, I didn't think so. Sure, the house is old and if you bent your head down and squinted, you probably could find some dust. Newsflash: Houses do not have to be spotless to be habitable. It's a fact. Just watch "How Clean is Your House?" and you will feel better. My mother once told me that she was glad when I came over. "When Carol comes over, she'll start looking around, grab a dustcloth and start dusting, or she'll start cleaning the stove. It makes me feel terrible. When you come over, I don't have to worry. We just have a good time." So hahaha Carol! And that statement coming from my mother, a certified neat freak. So my sister's ragging on my father. My father is from an era when men didn't do housework. He went to work, did the grocery shopping, cut the grass, made repairs (ok he sat and stared at the problem for ages and then muttered mild curse words). She cleaned, cooked, did laundry and they were perfectly happy. They weren't always perfectly happy. It doesn't fit here, but if ever there was an inspiration for staying together through horrible (not physical) fighting, they are it. How they used to fight when I was around 10 to how close they grew together makes me cry.

But anyway, so here's my father being gradually put in the role of housekeeper and later cook and caregiver. He never even complains. Now my sister gets mad if he says that he can't stay long at the nursing home because he has things to do. She also got mad when he would get frustrated with my mother's behavior at home because it kept him from accomplishing things he needed to get done. She would say in an angry and sarcastic tone, "What does he have to do?" Well today it was laundry. He even planted tomatoes; putting in tomato plants was practically the highlight of my mother's year. If  my sister wants to complain about his being busy, then maybe she should blame my mother. That's right, my mother. When my father retired, my mother logically pictured him sitting in front of the t.v. all day and night. She knew that would kill him. She loved my father and 'keeping him around' became her priority. As a result, she ran that man like a dog. She made sure she found things for him to do and absolutely refused to let him sit in front of the t.v. until after dinner. I think he just got used to it.