Laundry A Place Of Peace & Chaos

Stains? Check. Fabric? Check. Dry ‘em. Fold ‘em.
Donate ‘em? Keep ‘em? Toss ‘em? Back on the rack?

Sitting on a stool, staring at my laundry,
Eyes caressing each wrinkle,
Each buttoned shirt, each folded sleeve pleat,
The sense of now and tomorrow all
Poised for my attention because laundry is all
About the next day. Not today and never yesterday.
The smell of fresh, warm, fabric. Peaceful. Hmmm… Maybe not…

Just one more load to wash…all sorted, soap in. Door closed.
The machine beeps at me, spins and suggests adding more clothes.
Hmmmm. No. I do my stuff, they do their stuff and never the t’wain shall meet.
Ignored, the machine begins to whir and slosh and make noises that flash me back.

My eyes dim and I see and hear the hump-backed wringer washer
Mom used to crank and crank and crank in a sort of
Mad Industrial Symphony, squeaking and creaking and tweaking itself
Til a cannon’s end as the dirty water came roaring back into the suds tub.

I’d stand on a box to watch the wonder of water coming back from action
To wait for the next load when the dirty water would be called once again to clean.
I wondered how much dirt, dirty water could carry. I knew clean water
Was fast at work rinsing the play dirt out of my clothes. Probably.

Adding to the musical cacophony was a wondrous but apparently dangerous agitator.
Then Mom would rinse and whoosh and rinse and whoosh until
Her cranking and cranking left an amorphous pile of wet something in a basket.

A heavy basket to be lugged up the stair by the Mom to the back yard.
To the clothes line. Wooden pins, pinchy pins, blowing clothes on the wire or rope.

Except jeans. When I was young, jeans were washed and hung out with wire expanders.
On their own, they’d shrink to the size of toddler’s pants.
Instead, Mom would get a wire expander and wrestle it down the pant leg, stretching and pulling and stretching the jean leg until it was all even in the end.
Then next leg. Not a pleasant battle to watch, brutal in fact.

One day, Dad became manager of Armour’s and got a raise.
Mom took me to Geiger’s Western Wear and bought me a pair of permapress jeans.
Our “save the suds” washer went away. We got something called a dryer.
That was a nice change but didn’t change everything.

Washing and drying is only the start! Then ironing!!
Permanent press is false news. Mom ironed everything. Everything.
Shirts, handkerchiefs, blouses, underwear…well, not socks.
That’s how I learned to iron. And she figured, as long as I could iron, I could wash.

And so it started.

Mom had a process. I have one, too.
When Dad was working her system including separating all the things for different processes and places.
I have continued that protocol.

When Dad died and Mom moved into an apartment, the process became smaller and seemingly easier.
Except. Mom got older so easier was relative.

Mom downsized more and moved into assisted living.
Laundry was no longer hers to do.
Somehow all her stuff was rounded up and put in a mesh bag.
A few days later, it was returned in the same mesh bag.

Clean? Don’t know. She was happy.

Back in the 1940s and 50s, my parents were quite dapper,
Movie star look even. Suave suits, snappy hats, groovy friends.
Dressed to the nines, glowing with energy, hope, family and life.

Now, one mesh bag.

So, I sit, staring at my pile of folded laundry.
Seeing faces, wrinkles, twinkles, and eyes
Echoing in my memories.

Shirts and ironing
Jeans and Geigers
Folds and rolls of hankies
Smiles and laughter from Mom.

The image above is from the Industry Museum in Baltimore

Taking for Granted

We did a quick walkabout and a slower sip-about at a couple of local vineyards. The weather was great, very slight breeze and mild temperatures. The places we went were not people-packed so the pace of walking and sipping was perfect. Virginia is a beautiful state…I think most states are beautiful, each in their own way. I’ve been to many of them and lived in a lot. The thing I notice about my noticing where I live is…I have taken them for granted. (Sigh. Doesn’t everyone?) To name just a very few of my places…the plains of South Dakota, the incredible mountains of Utah, the superb beaches of the Florida and Alabama Gulf Coast, the almost electric excitement of D.C., the natural peace of the PNW, the wondrous variety of California, the power of the ocean surrounding tiny, gorgeous Iceland.

At most times in my life I was sure where I lived at that moment was where I wanted to live when I “retired.” And, of course, in the interim, I would always return to visit. I loved spending time in Denmark when I was young and convinced myself that although I would not retire there, I would return at least once a year to revel in the spirit of the Danish culture and fun loving people. Didn’t happen. I also liked to think I paid very close attention to the land, the people, and the environment of ALL the places I’ve been, but thinking back, I’m not sure. Walking in the vineyards made me think back to the mountains of Utah and even Austria.

It’s almost a meme that we don’t pay attention to the places we live and visit. Some folks make lots of videos of where they are, what they eat, and who they’re with so they can relive the moments at their leisure. I wonder if they ever do. I mean, I wonder if they will look at the videos and believe that what they see on their phones is all there is. I have an opinion on that, too (of course I do).

Phone or camera image is just that…the thinnest sliver of time stacked on a silicon plate or chip in a place far away from anything close by or humanly recognizable. What it should represent (to me) is an icon of all my senses absorbing the essence of being alive in that moment, that place, with those people!. Easier said than done. I often look at pictures in my catalogue that go back 40 plus years. I do my best to remember everything about where, why, with whom the picture contains. Sometimes I’m successful, sometimes I’m not sure.

Rambling on. What does all that mean? Time. Not a lot of it. Ever. No matter your age. Sip the wine and taste the grape, the soil, the labor of the artists. Enjoy the view, it’s the best in the world for wherever and whenever you are.

Listen.

Listen.

Listening, an art and science beyond my ken but I know it’s within reach.

The image above is taken just outside the building on the Veritas Vineyard. The video below is from Hazy Mountain Vineyard.

Young Love

While sitting next to the James River a couple of weeks ago, I saw two young people deliberately walking towards one another from opposite river rocks and gently embrace. I was impressed by the cinematic, tenderness of the embrace and smiled as I noticed the other watchers. a flock of Canada Geese just feet away from the couple. Of course, the flowing water, gentle breeze, and warm autumn smells added a great deal to the mood. Well, at least my mood, who knows what they were thinking.

The Thing About Waiting

Have you ever looked at your watch and wondered why time hasn’t budged since the last time you looked? Painful. Bone crushing waiting. Time…a giant anaconda squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until the only thing I think of is the waiting…everything else is irrelevant. Yet, I know all I have to do is stare the anaconda in the eye and say, “Screw you, I am going to live the journey, not the end.” Ha! Easy to say. Almost impossible to do.

I often contemplate hypothetical journeys trying to emphasize the journey, not the destination. (Easy to say) Years ago I had a recurring dream: I’m falling from an airplane with no parachute, clear skies, puffy clouds, ground rushing towards me. Intellectually I know the fall will not end well but I want to use the time to fly like a bird, something I couldn’t do in real life. Typically, I’d look for a lake or a haystack or something to save me from being squashed. Filling my time with wonder and a mission.

In real life, the thing I’m waiting for determines how I arrive at the destination. Metaphorically, I could be running through a flower-filled meadow or wading in a clear stream or sloshing through knee deep muck or straining through frozen snow banks. Just depends on what “it” is and how I look at the “Anaconda of Waiting.” I grew up learning about and sometimes even celebrating the agony and joy of waiting…Advent, child birth, family coming home for the holidays, wedding ceremonies and more. But sometimes, the waiting is, well, waiting about something which might change my life in an unknown way. Test results, child birth, elections, war…

I try to be the master of my own metaverse and hangout with people who love me or care for me so fighting the Anaconda of Waiting is not a solo affair. We all know the end of each of our journeys is, well, the end of our journey… Frankly, I’m not a fan of the end of life’s journey. I’d rather continue flying like a bird, but you know, creativity, love, hope and even a little faith spit in the eye of that Serpent.

The image above is a composite of the Bromo Seltzer Tower in Baltimore, from the inside of the tower.

Forest Bath

I voted yesterday then stopped at a riverside park for a quick walk in the trees. I filmed a bit and took some stills. Green trees and grass, light breeze…a wonderful day. And yet, leaves on the ground and cool air are the early warning signs of winter. Singing birds quieted as soon as I walked nearby and so I’ve added “voice over” birds…the true birder would probably identify them from a jungle far away! Ha! That may be but that’s the way I felt bathing in the shadow of the leaves.

Cars…Then, Now, Next

As a young teenager I was fascinated by cars…not as power objects or symbols of my manhood, but as gadgets, cool machines that looked and functioned “out of the norm.” I loved cars that looked like space ships or land yachts or lab experiments gone wrong! For instance, an older kid in my hometown, Chad, I think was his name, had a 1930-something car he’d turned into a hotrod like “American Graffiti’s” Milner’s Coupe. Chad’s machine was a “not-so-natural” fusion of nostalgic curves with a powerful engine. You could hear him coming from blocks away and, oh, the speed. In truth, I don’t remember too much about the car, my mind slips between a vision of a car and a hotrod pickup. I just remember always hearing it when he’d drive into the parking lot across the street from the junior high school. Rumor was he kept a shotgun in the door. Maybe I’m remembering more fantasy than fact. Ahhh…that’s the lot of someone my age.

I used to call out the year, make, and model of passing cars to my grandparents. My grandfather asked me once how I could tell them apart so easily. I clearly remember thinking before I responded and then saying, “Well, it’s the total look but really, you can always tell by the rear end.” My grandparents laughed and laughed but my 10-year-old mind didn’t get the joke. I do remember the gull wing shape of the 1959 Chevy, the Star Wars power of the 1960 Chrysler Imperial, the notched rear window of the 1960 Lincoln Continental, and on and on and on. All awesome designs of form (story) and function (only power counted).

I learned to drive when I was 12 or so on a 1957 Rambler station wagon. At some point, my parents bought a brown 1954 Chrysler New Yorker later replaced with a hand-me-down 1956 Chrysler New Yorker (from my grandparents). That ‘56 Chrysler was my “teenage” car, a cool push button transmission but with only a two speed automatic transmission. I had to get used to not having a clutch. Things were different then, no seatbelts, no crash test dummies, no warning systems. And gas was about 20 cents a gallon.

I was never into “working” on cars or having the most powerful car…I just loved the gadgetry and the looks. I bought my first car in 1968, a 1965 Mustang. Automatic transmission, 289 cubic inches with a huge two barrel carb. It had seat belts in the front! It was burgundy with a black interior. I had it painted bright yellow, I think they called it Chevy Racing Yellow. It was cool. It tended to “float” when I drove over 100 mph so I didn’t do that more than once or twice. I didn’t work on it except to wash it. I am not a “car guy,” it’s all I can do to keep them gassed up. When I graduated from pilot training in 1972, I bought a 1973 MGB. A fun, fun car to drive but one that required a lot of “work.” Hence it sat in the garage quite a bit of the 20 years I had it before giving it away.

Today’s cars are…well, more gadgetry than stylish. That is, the common people’s cars are that way. The billionaires’ cars, the Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Rolls, McClarens, Corvettes, etc., are still kind of cool looking, but…. Well, the rest are sort of same-O, same-O. Appliances, toasters. Squint your eyes the next time you look at a Tesla and you might be looking at a giant computer desktop mouse!! And try to quickly pick out the Camry from the Accord or the Maxima or any model of Tesla. What did Henry Ford say about getting the color of a Model A? I do appreciate all the gadgetry in the new cars and would love to have a go at one of them. But, it’s not compelling enough, not safe enough…not cool enough to spend the crazy amount of money they want for a new car these days.

And tomorrow’s cars?!? I can only imagine. The next frontier of divisiveness in America may be about cars. Imagine if all cars had to be self driving. We would need fewer collision repair shops. Health care would not need to support the highway tragedies we see every minute. Traffic control would be a piece of cake reducing the requirement to patrol highways and streets for speeders and drunk/reckless drivers. Ideally, we’d be able to put any “skin” on an auto drive car and so could show off our manliness, wealth, fashion or whatever but the innards of the car would all be the same. Southern California would be apoplectic. Imagine all the good things that might happen if we didn’t drive the cars ourselves. (I can feel the angst a-rising!)

The image above was taken at the Virginia State Fair just before what I think was the Dressage competition. Graceful pairs of people and horses, intent and intense.

Fredericksburg

It’s been a fairly long time since I’ve driven more than a bit for a walkabout but today I was coaxed onto I-95 by friends from Metro DC who wanted to meet in Fredericksburg, VA, for a walkabout. I was happy the traffic gods smiled and let me finish the drive without mishap or mayhem. Sigh. Oh, for the good old days. (not)

I had a goal of finding a mark of beauty in the everyday, the One Red Spot. I was not successful in that quest but the walkabout was gentle enough to let me bring the world into focus…not on my sensor but in my mind. So…a super successful day … one scoring no “wall-able” images but fun seeing old friends and sharing memories.

The alleyways in between the old, old houses were always very narrow. I was told they were made so narrow to prevent cannons from being wheeled between streets (Revolutionary War tale). Don’t know if that tale is true but looking at this narrow walkway, I can certainly imagine it so..

I walked into this store and was confronted with what I’d hope was my One Red Spot. No, too, too many Red Spots but a nice symphony of non-talking heads. The kind I wish we had on TV.

Store front display. What fun.

This image is of a window, its shade, and its decor.

Healthcare

I grew up in the small town of Huron, South Dakota. Well, Huron at 12,000 or so people was not super small, in fact, 12,000 was large by South Dakota standards, we were the fourth largest county in the state! (I believe they’ve slipped to 5th or 6th today). We had two clinics and one hospital and maybe a couple dozen doctors. I was spoiled by healthcare in Huron and the personal touch physicians brought to the relationships with each of their patients.

Back in the day, Franciscan nuns ran the hospital and the nursing school right next door. My memory is of course impacted by time and my limited (patient only) view of St John’s Hospital but my impression was that the sisters ran it very…hmmm, what’s the right word….in a very disciplined manner (pun intended). Over the years my dad spent quite a bit of time in St John’s and he got to know Sister Basel quite well. It wasn’t always a fun relationship. Dad smoked and eventually the hospital didn’t allow smoking even for patients. He and Sister had spirited, emotional discussions regarding this rule. After one surgery when he wasn’t allowed to smoke, he pulled out all his IVs, ripped off the electrodes, and marched out of the hospital, fanny hanging out of his gown, to smoke his cigarette. Bleeding. You had to know him.

The doctors knew their patients. Sometimes that meant I had to wait hours to see my physician because he was spending time with those sicker than me or who just needed to talk with him about their health (yes, all male doctors). The clinics were right across the street from the hospital and often doctors would leave their scheduled appointments and run to an emergency in the hospital. Although Huron had an ambulance, I don’t remember trained EMTs or fully equipped vehicles like we have today. If you had an emergency someone drove you to the hospital or you’d call your doctor and he’d meet you at your place with the ambulance.

Generally speaking the doctors were all very “human” and not god-like creatures isolated from the lives and environs of their patients. When I was in the Air Force I felt the same sense of community with the flight surgeons as I had with the doctors in Huron. But then, things changed, which is part of living and progress.

I haven’t lived in Huron for over fifty years and seldom visited, the last time was six years ago. The hospital is still there but the sisters are gone. The clinics are still standing. I wonder if the same sense of community among physicians and patients exists. Health care is so specialized today and driven by insurance companies. The “care” part of healthcare is like a walled city, protected by insurance wizards from the doctors and patients trying to breach the wall and get to unbiased care.

I digress. What a surprise. Do I miss those days? Maybe. But then I remember the joy my parents had when a polio vaccine was discovered. And, I remember my grandfather dying on the floor next to me, in his house, waiting for an ambulance to show up along with his doctor. I remember my sister getting on a train to travel hours to see a specialist. Change in healthcare is cool. Learning to be my own care advocate, not quite as easy. I was very spoiled in Huron.

The image above was taken the last time I was in Huron. I’m standing on the levee of Riverside Park, the site of much passion and fun, looking north. When I was young, this park was a garden with flower beds, glorious trees, and wondrous stone walls, but right next to the James River. A great place to picnic, make out, have parties, and enjoy life. Howsomever, every few years, the lazy flowing James River became enraged and would rise and fill the park with silt while washing away the trees, gardens and memories. Huron finally gave up on the gardens and planted grass. And only one of the walls remains. In the image, the top bridge is the railroad bridge. The bottom is the Third Street car bridge, and the bright line of white is the old Third Street Dam, also gone. Life goes on.

Fair

We did a quick walkabout at the State Fair of Virginia today. Lots of laughter, lots of folks, young and old having fun, eating definitely not-good-for-you food and just generally having a great time. I was reminded of the South Dakota State fair some 60 plus years ago when I was the same age as the folks on the ride in the image above. Of course, in the 50s and 60s, we didn’t have any fancy rides like this. In fact, most of the rides we had probably wouldn’t pass the safety requirements today. The weather was great, the crowds were light and everyone was having a good time.

Of course, after racing around sometimes just sitting is good like the image below.

Flying

Watching the elegance and grace of a soaring bird has always given me energy and made me happy. My grandparents were bird people and took every opportunity to teach me about the lives and ways of birds. My grandmother gave me the Audubon book and I was hooked on the beauty and grace of these magical, yet everyday accessible, creatures. When I was in the sixth or seventh grade I discovered that our little town of Huron had a chapter of the Audubon Society and they gave presentations every month in the high school auditorium. I would regularly attend, no matter the weather, for years; I loved the videos and images. Until I discovered girls and rock and roll.

When restarting my photography passion some years ago, my interest in birds was rekindled. I’d also found a walking area, Huntley Meadows, that was a large, bird rich wetlands. Should I become a birder? I looked at the equipment I would need, looked at my budget, and shook my head, no. To get the closeup, detailed shots that ooze the power and nature of birds, you need a lens of bazooka-like proportions. Well, maybe not bazooka, but certainly long…and heavy. At Huntley Meadows I saw photographers carrying their gear in baby carriages and golf carts. And the cost! Wowza! A Sony 600mm lens is almost $13,000! And these are not lenses that have a great number of other purposes besides wildlife. After all, it’s hard to get close to an eagle and it’s best not to get too close to a bear…and those attributes are probably worth $13k to wildlife shooters! So my bird findings are normally happenstance, circumstantial to enjoying the places I’m in.

A couple of weeks ago I did a walkabout at Tuckahoe Creek Park, a tiny wetlands north of the James River just west of Richmond. The walkway is only about a quarter mile long with a couple of bump outs. I went back last Saturday at dawn. I saw a few birders with long lenses but these folks were friendly, more interested in sharing where birds were than shooshing us non-birders from making noise as we walked (my Huntley experience). I don’t have a long lens so was using my street 135. Fortunately these birds decided to pose for me. The photographers told me the two egrets had been “battling” for the space for several minutes when I arrived. It was a great way to start my day. Off in the distance, I could see a bald eagle perched on the top branch of a tree. At least I think it was a bald eagle. Hmmmm….