Every Saturday I enjoyed helping Mom with the Saturday cleaning. Dusting the furniture was fun, washing the windows, and rubbing the drying cloth over them hard enough to make a squealing sound never lasted long enough, shaking the rugs was something I dreamed of doing until I was actually old enough to do it and found out it wasn't nearly as fun as it appeared to be.
The one part of cleaning that I detested from as far back as I can remember was taking the dreaded piece of emery cloth and cleaning the top of our wood cook stove.
It made my fingernails feel weird, the sound made me shiver, and it was hard work pressing that cloth as hard as you could against the stove top will rubbing it carefully in one direction.
As much as I enjoyed being Mom's right hand helper, I had a way of disappearing when the emery cloth came out. If nothing else, a bathroom excuse always worked.