Housekeeping has always been a mystery to me. Right up there with how you deal with small children. I don’t even remember actually meeting any of my children until they started kindergarten. My loving partner unselfconsciously assumed childrearing tasks while I concentrated on more important problems such as “How do we fight climate change?” Or, “How do we end the war in Afghanistan?”

When Barbara passes away in December, I sink into grief. I discover that I have not only lost the joy of my life, but also lost the one who knew how to do things. I panic, with visions of dirty dishes piling up in the sink, food rotting in the fridge, dust gradually burying all the furniture and the floors accumulating coffee stains, miscellaneous shreds of paper and food scraps. I’m appalled that I will become “that needy man” who is incapable and incompetent, a charity-target for all the females in my life. I have heard about “friends with benefits.” It’s true—I find that the chief benefit of my female friends is providing me information about how to run a rice cooker, counseling me on how long before food in the fridge rots or telling me how often to wash the bedsheets.

Take clothes, for instance. When Barbara was here, I would put my dirty clothes in a white plastic basket. They would briefly disappear and later reappear—folded in my dresser drawer. (One of my friends calls me a “kept man.” I greatly resemble that remark.)

But today I boldly determine to do two loads of laundry—my first such attempt in fifty-four years. I heard somewhere that you have to separate the coloreds from the whites. We have an over-under washer-dryer so I lift the lid of the washer and throw the coloreds in. How full can you fill the washer? My friend Lennie says not much more than half full. I attempt to consolidate two jugs of liquid laundry soap, spilling about a cup of liquid on the floor. So, paper towels and twenty minutes cleaning it up. Finally, I pour in half a cup of soap and close the lid. To be safe, I just leave the settings where they were before: “Normal, chime off.” I push the button. Three beeps but nothing happens. I push it again. One beep, the machine starts and I walk away, not knowing how long it will run. In a few minutes I check back and it has stopped. I lift the lid—no water has come in.

So, I call my daughter who serves as my loyal friend and life coach. (She nursed Barbara in her last days, got me started attending “Grief Share,” and now closely supervises my health, couture and meal preparation.) “The washer’s stupid,” she says. “You sometimes have to push the button more than once.”

“I did push it—four times. It starts; then after a few minutes it stops. Oh, and no water comes in.”

[Pause.] “Dad, you do know there are two sets of controls on the panel—one set for the washer and the other for the dryer? Are you sure you’re pushing the washer button?”

[Pause.] “Oh, right. I guess I was pushing the dryer button. That could be the problem.”

Chastened, I start over. This time the coloreds wash without a hitch. When the washer stops, I grab the sodden mass of clothes, dump it into the dryer and punch the button. I call Kimberly again, “I see no numbers on the dial. How long does it run? Shall I set the timer? I don’t want the clothes to sit there; they might get wrinkled.”

“Dad, if they get wrinkled you can just run water on a hand towel, throw it in with the clothes and run it for twenty minutes or so. That’ll take out the wrinkles.”

Thankfully my clothes come out without wrinkles. Meanwhile I throw the whites into the washer and after they wash, I move them into the dryer. I even remember to clean out the lint in the dryer filter.

I live in a complex world where I don’t know how to operate stuff, say nothing about how to repair it. But I have to confess I’m enjoying learning new skills and building confidence each day. These small successes encourage me to move on to the next task—vacuuming.