It was a wringer type of washing machine, a barrel shaped tub with two ringers at the top to squeeze all the water from the clothes. It stood stoically in the basement accompanied by a pile of dirty clothes that was as high as I was tall. The clothes were sorted and placed into the tub which morphed them into an unidentifiable collage of colors swishing back and forth to the rhythm of a bass drum. When they were deemed clean I had to lift them from the sudsy water and one by one place them through the ringer. Fortunately there was a safety latch since I managed to catch my delicate little hand into the ringer along with a piece of clothing. I survived this machine assault like I am sure many of my generation did.
After the final squeeze the clothes were placed into a wooden clothes basket to be hung out to dry.
A basket of wet clothes can be heavy, especially when you are lugging them up a flight of stairs. No matter, out they went into the light of the day. And then there was the clothes line, strung from one pole to another, taunt and straight, waiting its’ charges and the attack of the clothes pins. A limp cloth bag at one end of the pole contained the two prong instruments of choice.
Anyone who might happen upon a clothes line decked out with the laundry of a family could draw as many conclusions as Sherlock Holmes. There were large waist underwear indicating a person of large girth living within the house. In our case it was our grandma, and I remember thinking from my little girl eyes that those underpants went on forever. If there were baby diapers, well that’s too obvious although a huge quantity could indicate more than one infant. If there were overalls there was a working man in the house, or a farmer, white shirts depicted a more genteel profession. Various skirts and trousers added up to a family of girls and boys. Perhaps this seems very mundane but the expression of “Don’t hang out your dirty laundry in public has its’ origins in a time when that’s exactly what you did.
Once the clothes were hung out to dry, Mother Nature went to work. The sun and wind combined to dry the clothes and infuse them with this wonderful, outdoor, fresh air kind of smell that delighted your senses. I particularly remember that the sheets smelled so good when you slept on them.
Laundry day was not over when the clothes were dry and brought into the home. I can remember my mom standing by the ironing board, and ironing piece after piece, sprinkling some with water, others with starch, and lovingly taking every wrinkle and crease away with the rhythm of a waltzing iron. I would watch her and want to grow up and be a mommy too.
The clothes were dispersed to their various closets and Monday came to a close with clean clothes, clean sheets and the knowledge we could do it all over again next Monday.
