Paddy Eger's Blog - Posts Tagged "life-experiences-shared"
Marta and Me: Wash Day and The Clothesline
One way I shared my life with my POV character:
Each wash day Mom separated clothes from the hamper in the bathroom. She carried the laundry basket of whites to the garage as the first load.
Mom rolled the wringer washer into position beside the smooth, deep-sided cement utility tub. She pulled the short hose on the faucet into the washer and turned on the hot water. While the tub filled, she added Ivory Flakes (99 and 44/100th % pure like the ad said)and Chlorine bleach and sloshed them around. Next she plugged in the power cord and added the clothes.
The agitator gyrated like someone doing The Twist. Clothes appeared and sank in the bleach-smelling frothy water. Our clothes wore out from bleaching, but they didn’t have stains.
When every stain was gone, Mom set the washed clothes aside, drained the water into the utility tub and started over with the medium colored clothes. That water would be left in the tub to wash the dark clothes next. After all, the clothes weren’t filthy; we’d just worn them three or four days. They mostly needed ‘freshening’.
Rinsing came next. Whites then mediums and darks took turns in the washer. After a few good swishes, each item was removed and hand-twisted before being put through the wringer, two rubber-coated rollers on the top of the wash machine. Mom turned a crank which flattened the clothes. Excess water dropped away into the utility tub. The squash-me-all-flat clothes were placed in the laundry basket and taken to the clothesline.
When clothes overloaded the wringer the two rollers sprung apart. Mom had to stop, reset the rollers and latch them back into place. I was never allowed to use the wringer for fear I’d get myself caught up in the rollers.
All backyards had clotheslines, mostly homemade ‘T’ posts with taut lines. Dad made ours to cross the backyard from the grape arbor to Mr. McManus’ fence gate. The sturdy six by six beams were painted white to match the arbor. Twice a year Dad cut back grape tendrils that hitched a ride along the wires, planning an escape into Mr. McManus’ fence.
On sunny days Mom pegged the wash outside. She stuck wooden pegs or clothespins in her mouth to save picking them up one-by-one. Sheets hung furthest from the house, unmentionables hung on the middle clothesline and towels flapped close to the kitchen window.
When Mom thought they were dry, I was sent out to feel them. I’d walk my face ran against the towels, by-pass the ‘underthings’ and walk my body with outstretched arms against each sheet testing for dryness. Dried clothes smelled like fresh air; towels were crunchy and stiff like hair with blue Dippity Doo slathered on it.
Until I was tall enough to reach the pegs, Mom took down the laundry. If I yanked them down, the wire springs in the clothespins flew out and became lost in the grass to be ‘found’ by bare feet or tossed about by lawn mowers in the summer. Neither a comforting event.
Rainy days the clothes hung in the garage. I let Mom decide when they were dry; it wasn’t as much fun testing them inside. They always felt damp to me.
When the clothesline was empty in the summer, Mom helped me hang blankets and large, worn tablecloths or bedspreads along the clotheslines to make forts. The dull brown wool Army blankets and my old pink chenille bedspread were my favorites. They hung close to the ground so when I sat down, my head remained out of sight. Even though my legs and bottom were only partially concealed, I felt hidden. The sun warmed the blankets as I sat in the fort with my crayons and color books, imagining other worlds.
If the neighbor kids came over, we’d run under and around the blankets playing chase and keep away. But the clothesline house was mostly my quiet backyard place on the cool grass each summer.
Each wash day Mom separated clothes from the hamper in the bathroom. She carried the laundry basket of whites to the garage as the first load.
Mom rolled the wringer washer into position beside the smooth, deep-sided cement utility tub. She pulled the short hose on the faucet into the washer and turned on the hot water. While the tub filled, she added Ivory Flakes (99 and 44/100th % pure like the ad said)and Chlorine bleach and sloshed them around. Next she plugged in the power cord and added the clothes.
The agitator gyrated like someone doing The Twist. Clothes appeared and sank in the bleach-smelling frothy water. Our clothes wore out from bleaching, but they didn’t have stains.
When every stain was gone, Mom set the washed clothes aside, drained the water into the utility tub and started over with the medium colored clothes. That water would be left in the tub to wash the dark clothes next. After all, the clothes weren’t filthy; we’d just worn them three or four days. They mostly needed ‘freshening’.
Rinsing came next. Whites then mediums and darks took turns in the washer. After a few good swishes, each item was removed and hand-twisted before being put through the wringer, two rubber-coated rollers on the top of the wash machine. Mom turned a crank which flattened the clothes. Excess water dropped away into the utility tub. The squash-me-all-flat clothes were placed in the laundry basket and taken to the clothesline.
When clothes overloaded the wringer the two rollers sprung apart. Mom had to stop, reset the rollers and latch them back into place. I was never allowed to use the wringer for fear I’d get myself caught up in the rollers.
All backyards had clotheslines, mostly homemade ‘T’ posts with taut lines. Dad made ours to cross the backyard from the grape arbor to Mr. McManus’ fence gate. The sturdy six by six beams were painted white to match the arbor. Twice a year Dad cut back grape tendrils that hitched a ride along the wires, planning an escape into Mr. McManus’ fence.
On sunny days Mom pegged the wash outside. She stuck wooden pegs or clothespins in her mouth to save picking them up one-by-one. Sheets hung furthest from the house, unmentionables hung on the middle clothesline and towels flapped close to the kitchen window.
When Mom thought they were dry, I was sent out to feel them. I’d walk my face ran against the towels, by-pass the ‘underthings’ and walk my body with outstretched arms against each sheet testing for dryness. Dried clothes smelled like fresh air; towels were crunchy and stiff like hair with blue Dippity Doo slathered on it.
Until I was tall enough to reach the pegs, Mom took down the laundry. If I yanked them down, the wire springs in the clothespins flew out and became lost in the grass to be ‘found’ by bare feet or tossed about by lawn mowers in the summer. Neither a comforting event.
Rainy days the clothes hung in the garage. I let Mom decide when they were dry; it wasn’t as much fun testing them inside. They always felt damp to me.
When the clothesline was empty in the summer, Mom helped me hang blankets and large, worn tablecloths or bedspreads along the clotheslines to make forts. The dull brown wool Army blankets and my old pink chenille bedspread were my favorites. They hung close to the ground so when I sat down, my head remained out of sight. Even though my legs and bottom were only partially concealed, I felt hidden. The sun warmed the blankets as I sat in the fort with my crayons and color books, imagining other worlds.
If the neighbor kids came over, we’d run under and around the blankets playing chase and keep away. But the clothesline house was mostly my quiet backyard place on the cool grass each summer.
