“When I was young, I had the body of a Greek god,” my foster father told me. “Now I just have the body of an old Greek,” which he was.

I lived with John and his wife, Ruth, in their double-wide trailer on several acres outside of Boyne City, Michigan, when I was 15. Before retiring to northern Michigan, John had been a fire marshal near Detroit.

“When we lived downstate, I taught an NRA program for kids and it was pretty clear that girls have better natural aim than boys,” John shared after showing me how to shoot a .22 rifle. And, yes, like many of the girls he had trained, I was a good shot from the get-go.

Looking back, it’s regrettable I wasn’t permanently placed with John and Ruth. I stayed in touch with them for several years and although we eventually lost contact, they frequently pique my memory. Last week while ironing, I remembered John telling me he had come to enjoy washing dishes, a chore he’d hated most of his life.

“The warm water feels good on my arthritis and I like looking out the window, seeing the birds and different animals coming down from the woods,” he said.

The view from my ironing board is that of my house’s sandstone foundation − not the same as the woods in northern Michigan, but not unpleasant either. Now a woman “d’une certain âge,” as the French say, I understand what John meant and it’s curious of the many things we discussed, his enjoyment of dishwashing is one that has stuck with me.

The primary function of children, according to my mother, is to do housework and I kept her home for many years. Because she was a chain smoker, an orange residue coated all mirrors and glass, which I weekly wiped clean before dusting the furniture. Carpeting was vacuumed multiple times a week; the kitchen was scrubbed nightly. And I ironed every weekend. My stepfather wore long-sleeved dress shirts to work. Depending on the season, every evening he changed into a short-sleeved button up or flannel shirt. I first ironed the backside of the collar, followed by the yoke, then the sleeves and finally the three sections of the shirt’s body, giving close attention to the placket. Place the shirt on a hanger and repeat with 11 more shirts, followed by pants and pillow cases.

While my mother’s houses have always been impeccably clean, they’ve also been equally uninviting. Yes, I’m hardwired by training for a tidy, organized home, but clean and welcoming need not be mutually exclusive, a home can be both. Before my eldest child was school aged, I read “Shelter for the Spirit: How to Make Your Home a Haven in a Hectic World.” The author, Victoria Moran, describes creating a home that is both practical and comfortable. Something of a mash up of Marie Kondo, feng shui and warm Waldorf aesthetics (IYKYK), the book has influenced how my homes not only look, but feel. My longtime friend Jen Marvelous recently tallied the number of houses I’ve had since we left college.

“You’ve set up at least seven homes and I’ve loved them all,” she said. “Would you come help me?” Jen recently bought a small home in Philadelphia, where she’s lived for over 25 years, and for the first time in her life, she lives alone. I immediately said yes, and drove there last week.

American women over 50 who prefer living alone is a growing trend, a situation my friend and I simultaneously and unexpectedly find delightful. Our friends and children fill our homes most days, but then they leave. I cannot recall ever being as content as I am living in a cozy home that is just as I wish it to be.

I begrudged ironing for my mother, in part because it was a chore that took an hour or more. Today, I never iron shirts as cleaners do a far better job. But because I prefer 100% cotton bedding, I iron not only pillowcases, but also the upper trim of top sheets so that they lie flat. I also use cloth napkins, all of which I iron after they’ve dried on an aluminum rack.

Standing in my basement smoothing out wrinkled linens provides a reprieve from the noise and activity of daily living. The task, comfortingly familiar after decades of repetition, gives opportunity for my thoughts to gently wander. My calm joy in pottering around, keeping my home is a function of age not unlike that of my foster father’s so many decades ago. Accomplishments matter less than they did at a younger age whereas how each day feels, and little touches that make me happy, matter more.

Growing old, I’m finding, is rather pleasant.

This column was first published in the Akron Beacon Journal on Sunday, December 21, 2025.