As I cleaned our home last Saturday in preparation for overnight guests, my husband observed: "I wonder what our house would look like if we never got any company."

Squelching an urge to bop him with a broom handle, I had to admit he was right. Without the periodic presence of visitors, our home would be a mess.

It hasn't always been that way. When we were first married, I had aspirations of being the neat, tidy housekeeper my mother had taught me to be. Despite a house full of children, she managed a weekly cleaning schedule that resembled Army boot camp.

Monday was always laundry day, and mom woke before dawn to begin the washing. Stumbling downstairs for breakfast several hours later, I could smell the pungent homemade lye soap she used. This, combined with the fresh air that clung to the line-dried garments, left our clothes with a distinctively clean smell that lasted for days.

But it was how she hung laundry that revealed her fastidious approach to managing a home. Bath and kitchen towels were arranged from smallest to largest, and there was an endless row of socks, hung in pairs according to size, with all the heels facing the same direction.

On Tuesdays, mom ironed. She would dampen the shirts, handkerchiefs and pillowcases with water and a liquid starch, waiting several hours for the moisture to soak through the material before applying a hissing iron to the wrinkled garments.

If everything didn't get ironed in one day, she would roll the damp clothing into a ball and place it in the freezer. Freezing the clothes helped retain the moisture, she explained, saving a step in the process when she finished the ironing.

Wednesdays were set aside for grocery shopping. Having clipped ads from Tuesday's newspaper, mom, with several kids in tow, spent several hours at the store. The grocery bags filled the back of our '56 Pontiac wagon.

Unpacking the groceries was always an event for us children. I remember lining up the cereal boxes on their sides, pretending they were a train. They would snake slowly across the kitchen floor, and mom would be at the other end, ready to stack them in the cupboard. Mother would often make a game of the work we did.

Thursdays and Fridays were devoted to cleaning. On Thursday, we changed bedding and cleaned the upstairs; Fridays went to sprucing up the living area. Using vinegar and water for the windows and other homemade cleaning solutions, we scoured the nooks and crannies under mom's watchful eye. "Use a little elbow grease," she always told us.

By the time dad came home from his job at the bakery Friday, the house sparkled, ready for whatever batch of relatives that came visiting.

It's been many years since there has been any semblance of a cleaning routine in my home. The only thing predictable about my cleaning is the wild scramble that occurs whenever someone comes knocking at my door.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.