Decades ago, when I was young, there was “womens’ work,” and any man doing such would be subject to ridicule. One Mothers’ Day my father dried the dishes and headed out the back door to our clothesline to hang the wet dish towel. While he was hanging the towel on the line, a reedy little voice piped up from across the street, “Happy Mothers’ Day, Mr. Gravel!” Every year each of us in my family laugh as we remember it.
