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