BACK IN THE DAY
      Part II - Laundry

 

I’ve done laundry since I was fourteen: by hand, using a wash board or in the sink; in a wringer washer or automatic machine at home; at someone else's house, when I lived in apartments; in coin laundries (while living in student housing at the University of Michigan and later on when my washer conked out--that time I pulled a wagon with two kids and a ton of laundry half a mile to the laundry place).

I recall, at age fourteen, heating water in a copper boiler, filling it with buckets of cold water from the well the night before laundry was going to be done (this was Sunday night, because Monday was always washing day at Mom's house).

Another long-gone task was putting sheer curtains on curtain stretchers. Does anybody remember those? They were large wooden frames, adjustable, as I recall; the edges of the frame had small sharp nails sticking up--close together--and my mother attached the curtains on the little nails. When the curtain was hooked up all around the frame, it was stretched to its normal size and retained its shape. In a short time the curtain panel was dry enough to take it off the stretcher. Removing the curtains made little pink-pink sounds. (I was saved from multiple punctures and was never allowed to put curtains on the frames; by the time I had curtains to wash, they were synthetic and basically wash-and-wear. How decadent is that?) I recall some stuck fingers (not mine, thank heavens) that left blood on the panels and a fair amount of cussing. Clearly, keeping house was not for the timid.

I used Fels Naphtha soap (a bit harsh on the hands but it did the job) on work clothes, mainly coveralls and what we called work pants. These were heavier twill for long wear during tough jobs; my dad was a carpenter and wore jeans, mostly, but occasionally we had work pants to clean. After pants were washed and wrung dry (by hand or through a wringer on the washer), they were put on pants stretchers. These were thin metal frames, again adjustable, the shape of a pants leg, and were inserted in the legs of washable trousers, then stretched to the size of the pants leg. We hung them up to dry that way, and thus had less pressing to do later, usually just the waistbands and pockets.

Even when I finally had an automatic washer to use at home, there were always hand-wash-only items, like sweaters. They had to be re-shaped and dried flat. The goal was to get them back to the same size they were when dry. Another challenge. And I never had a sweater frame--looked like a big window screen that fit over the sides of the bathtub--so my sweaters lay around on tables and chairs and beds until they dried.

Drying clothes used to be fun—I loved hanging clothes on the line, in the sun and wind. (You can tell I wasn’t a working-away-from-home mom, can’t you?) Yes, sheets were stiff and had to be folded as they came off the line, and sometimes they got away from me when the wind was uber-strong, but the wind and sun made them feel and smell fresh. The electric clothes dryer was a great invention for inclement weather and last-minute needs. (Such as, “Mom, can you wash my jeans tonight? They’re the only ones I have!”)

Because ironing came after washing, “my basket overfloweth” was a familiar theme song, back in the day, especially for a family of six. Wash-and-wear didn’t come too soon for me. Before the kids had dresses and shirts made from synthetics and blends, their dad had dress shirts that were drip-dry. An iron never touched them. I used to regret that my mother never knew the advantages of modern fabrics and the easy-care properties they afforded the housewife. But I wonder--would she have really enjoyed having one of her jobs reduced so drastically? She took pride in a clean house, clean laundry, everything shipshape and in place. What would she have done with herself? (Since she worked away from home, I'm sure she could have used the extra time for something.)

Finally came the clothing revolution of the Sixties. My girls couldn’t be seen in dresses--they'd be laughed at--jeans were the only thing to wear. In many ways, jeans were a godsend to a busy home--wash, dry, wear. Repeat. Before long the jeans were hole-y--even better! Everybody wore jeans with holes.

Looking back (I know, here we go again), it sounds like The Simple Life--taking pleasure in everyday chores, finding joy in a big job completed in one day; but it wasn’t simple work; it was often hard work. And yet--and yet--I had fewer outside commitments to make it necessary for a “schedule,” a need to “prioritize” my tasks. For one thing, if I did all my home tasks, there was no time for much outside stuff. But, that was Back in the Day.

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Despite difficulties and challenges, I still love doing laundry. Now that I have a smaller household, I can usually get everything in one load, unless there are sheets, blankets, and rugs. Or guests. (Lest you misunderstand--I don't wash the guests; but they use sheets, blankets, etc. Those I wash.)

I wouldn’t want to scrub on a washboard again, or heat water in a copper boiler and dip it out into the washer and rinse tubs the next day. But I like getting a task finished in one day, having a closet and chest of drawers full of clean things to wear. It’s a small accomplishment, nowadays. But satisfying. Satisfying.

 

WHAT GOES AROUND . . . .

 

I never put much stock in reincarnation. Fooled around with it a little when I was in high school—made uneducated guesses about what I was “in my former life.” Always flattering, naturally. Princess in England. Avant garde writer in Paris. Celebrated musician/painter/sculptor in a civilized country like Italy, or Austria.

The truth was never to be found; hard to “prove” what you once were, if you indeed once were. But—I secretly suspected my former life was less than exemplary, exciting, or celebrated. A boulder, perhaps. Or a stump. When I managed to convince myself I’d been a mammal, I could picture myself as a rabbit. You know, running like a scared rabbit? That was me.

Recently I’ve had another look at reincarnation. It came about like this:

In 2007 my daughter came to live with me, bringing her cat and dog. When she moved away in 2009 to go to graduate school, she took the cat. The cat was smaller, easier to handle on a plane, and would more likely adapt to Arizona’s desert climate.

The dog stayed with me.

During the two years we were a household of four, the dog, whose name is Joy, became attached to me. Well, who wouldn’t? I was the source of all that makes dog life good: Walks! Food! Treats! Games! Snuggles on the sofa! We bonded well.

Daughter and cat departed. Joy and I took up a life a deux. Then came the revelations.

While I hunched over the keyboard to write, Joy sat in the hall and looked at me. I spoke to her, smiled at her, petted her if she comes by. This was repeated many times if I stayed too long at the computer. I explained that writing is work. I’m choosing words, making sentences, trying to follow a more-or-less logical thread to make a point. I’m working.

Clearly, in canine lexicon, writing does not equal work.

By accident I discovered that when I set up the sewing machine in the living room (where the TV lives and I can watch old movies while I sew), Joy approved. She'd lie in a chair directly in my sight—which means I was directly in her sight. She liked to watch me work.

Sewing was approved. So was cutting out pieces for a quilt. And ironing fabrics or table linens (or shirts when I get ambitious and want to look pressed). Running the sweeper was not quite at the top of the list, but it qualified as work. Putting up the Christmas tree. Taking down the Christmas tree. Cooking.

This scenario seemed quite familiar. Couldn’t think why. Then one day, when I had the Joy Seal of Approval for working, the light bulb over my head clicked on. Aha! I thought. Who does Joy remind me of? My mother!

“Put that book away and come dry dishes.”

“Why aren’t you dusting? You’re supposed to be dusting the living room.”

“You’re daydreaming again. Stop daydreaming and do something worthwhile.” (Like dusting, I suppose.)

Yes, Joy was on the same wavelength as my mother, who died many years ago.

Once I made that connection, I began to look for other characteristics. And I found them.

Besides Work Is Good, there’s The Look.

When I was about to leave the house and couldn’t take the dog (grocery store, library, lunching out), Joy stood in the living room, four-footed—rooted—spine straight, head up, chin forward, eyes never wavering from mine. Why aren’t you taking me? Or maybe, What do you think you’re doing?

That’s The Look.

I told her where I’m going, who I’d be with, and about when I’d be back. And I slunk out the door.

I took to calling Joy by my mother’s name—Doris Jenkins. A silly joke at first, but then I grew uneasy.

Doris Jenkins, my mother, wasn’t just a slave driver. Wasn’t only a nosy parker.

Doris Jenkins, like my dog Joy, loved me with all her heart.

Whenever I experienced the unconditional love of my dog, I was reminded: love was part and parcel of my mother’s life. She died too young, of a now treatable disease, but she loved as long as she lived. She loved people. All people. All ages. All kinds and colors. She would have been a wonderful worker for volunteer organizations that help folks in trouble. She’d seen trouble all her life and knew how it felt to be down and out. She knew the meaning of compassion.

Joy, a dog who came in out of the cold one autumn day, had been living rough. When she allowed herself to love my daughter and accept food and help, she turned into the dog who gave love from her heart.

Sadly, Joy is also no longer with us; but her legacy of love remains, and will always, in my mind, be entwined with my mother's love for me.

Reincarnation? Who knows? It doesn’t matter, really, does it? So long as the love keeps going around.
 

  

AN ENDLESS BALL OF YARN

This sounds like a fairy tale, and maybe it is; I’ve read so many stories in my long life that it’s possible I’ve turned into one of the characters.
It happened like this:

I bought a skein of yarn in many beautiful colors—soft blue, soft green, soft pinky salmon, soft gold—all in one skein. The colors run into one another and repeat over and over.

From this beautiful skein of yarn I made a baby hat to be given to folks who had no hats for their children. The one little hat used up scarcely any of the yarn, so I began to knit a blanket. It’s a simple blanket, about the size that will fit over an infant carrier. The pattern is also easy to do—every row is knitted, and the multiple beautiful colors weave in and out and around and about. It is a blanket I can pick up and work on whenever I have a few moments.

When I began to find the skein had changed size, I decided to rewind the yarn into a ball, starting at the end of yarn that poked out of the skein. I wound and I wound, twisting and turning the ball as it grew so that the yarn would hold together. The ball grew bigger, but the pile of yarn on the floor seemed to grow no smaller.

A long time later, I finally wound the last of the yarn into the ball and put the ball into a bag so it wouldn’t unravel. The blanket grew larger with each row I added. The ball of yarn stayed the same. I knitted more rows. The ball of yarn never changed.

After many months (in a fairy tale this would be years, but the universe is speeding up, you know)--as I say, after many months, I began to lose sight of the beautiful colors; they blended together and became "the project." All I could focus on was that da---- ball of yarn that never got smaller.

There appears to be no ending to this story. The ball of yarn continues on.

Does this resonate with you? That ball of yarn could well be my daily and weekly chores: dishes, cooking, laundry, cleaning . . . . They never end. The only variants I can work in are exercise classes, sewing projects, and—you guessed it—knitting. Oh, and DVDs of Masterpiece Mystery. Like the lovely yarn that grew into a little blankie, my daily life was in danger of losing its beautiful colors, because my focus was on life's daily-ness, not on its many and varied possibilities.

I’m trying to avoid evolving into Sisyphus—he’s the Greek guy whose sinful nature earned him a particularly rotten eternal punishment in the underworld: pushing a great boulder up a steep hill, only to have it roll back to the bottom where he had to trot down and start over again. Ad infinitum.

When I reach the end of the yarn--I'm thinking positive here--I'll show you the finished blanket. If I never reach the end . . . well, I've had a happy experience with many beautiful colors.

In the meantime, I'll see if I can find the colors of my life again. I know they're around here somewhere . . . .

CELEBRATING  ALL THE LITTLE THINGS
And all the big things.

We've had cloudy skies and dull days off and on since late last week. The sun may peek out for a while, then, whoop! back to the clouds. This back-and-forth weather wears me down. I get cranky (well, okay, crankier), nothing pleases me, and if there were a pity party going, I'd be the life and soul of it.

Maybe it takes days like that to make me recognize the little and not-so-little things that happen, the mood-lifters, the happiness reminders . . . .

Sharing breakfast

Take last Saturday. I'd been out for coffee with a friend, very early, and was home writing my journal for the day. Outside my window is a multi-hanger feeding post for various bird feeders.

Lately local cardinals have begun feeding at my big seed feeder--it has a standing tray so they feel safe up in the air on a level perch. Most often, they feed on the ground, their usual station. That morning, both Papa and Mama Cardinal came to eat. You know, Saturday morning, breakfast out. It must've been tasty, because he shared some seeds with her, feeding her. I'd never seen that before. Made my day.

Then back to the cloudy days and the grumps. Tuesday evening I went to visit my second daughter at work during her supper break. She brings me distilled water and sometimes samples of things she's baked or made--that night it was chicken-noodle soup (gluten-free) and a big flat package from her husband. It turned out to be one of his oil paintings, with the message: Happy Mother's Day. The background is a mix of indigo, green, and black, so the orchids stand out. He has an outstanding talent--I was overwhelmed by the work and the love that went into that painting, and that he made it just for me. It will hang with pride in my house.

Yesterday was another cloudy day--what else?--and, just to annoy me further, we had snow. Yes, snow, on April 22nd. I couldn't conjure up an antidote for that. Snow, really!

Then about 8:30 PM I had an email in my inbox from my co-founder of Heart & Hands, the knitting/sewing ministry at my church. She asked me to write something for the newsletter (deadline is this AM) about the picture on the bulletin board showing a new mom with her baby wrapped in one of the blankies we'd made and given to the local Neonatal ICU. What an upper! A picture of one of our blankies on a real baby. I'd only imagined them before, so knowing it went to a real little person . . . ! 

Since I hadn't seen the photo, I had to do some creative writing, but the draft I emailed to my friend was right on target, she said, so I emailed it to the newsletter lady.

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Today we have sun.

The cardinals are back--and he's feeding her again! Suppose she doesn't like to cook?

I'm still looking for a place to hang the orchids.

And the baby blanket I'm working on reminds me of the young mother-and-child photo on my church bulletin board.

The world reflects light and growth, love and connection. No time for the grumps, or pity parties. We might miss something great.

Almost finished...

BILLBOARD WISDOM

You’re traveling down the Interstate, 70 MPH, maybe 75, even up to 80 if you have to pass a slow-coach driver who thinks 68 is fast enough. Off to the right you see billboards. They’re everywhere. Companies approach property owners offering them long leases for what seems like found money, and then put up billboard foundations.

If you can slow down for a minute, maybe even down to the regulation 70 MPH recommended by some states, you might see something interesting. An encouraging phrase. A wisp of kindness. A fact that inspires you to do something, too.

I try to stay off the Interstate because it’s really not on my way to where I want to go, most days; and also because I like traveling at 60 MPH or even less. So I take what is now a county road, though it used to be a state highway, back in its day.

This county highway is a straight shot for me from my home to Fort Wayne, where I visit the Jo-Ann Fabric & Craft store whenever I have money, have my eyes checked every six months, and go to church twice a week—once for the regular Sunday worship service and once for the fiber arts group that knits, crochets, sews, and otherwise wrassles around with fibers to make things for other folks.

And on my way I pass billboards. Here are a few I’ve enjoyed:

Yes, indeed-Do Thy Best

 

It always has....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My youngest daughter was in California for a job interview and came across one that read: DO WHAT YOU LOVE. So I searched and found a DIY billboard with that message.

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The thing I especially liked about the billboards on www.values.com was the phrase Pass It On.

Right! If it’s worth looking at, reading, and ingesting, then pass it on.

You never know where wisdom/encouragement/inspiration will appear. Keep your eyes open. It may be on a billboard near you.

 

My favorite advice

IT’S THAT TIME OF YEAR

What happens when you don’t have any idea what you’re going to write about?

Some folks just start typing and see what develops.

Some ask their friends and family for suggestions for a topic to write about.

Others look up things on the Internet, browse through a book of quotations, look for words of wisdom in quotes by famous people . . . .

Today I’m not very inspired by what I see in my neighborhood, or know is coming up on my calendar. I mean, I’m having green grass, bloomin’ flowers, and singing birds. Lots of folks are having the same. Tomorrow I have an appointment for my semi-annual tooth cleaning. Are you interested in hearing about that? No, me either.

So, let’s think about something current and nice to contemplate—gardens and gardening. Here are some pithy thoughts to stir your brain:

If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.

Marcus Tullius Cicero

[Can’t argue with that one.]

 A garden requires patient labor and attention. Plants do not grow merely to satisfy ambitions or to fulfill good intentions. They thrive because someone expended effort on them.

Liberty Hyde Bailey

[Hmm, effort. Yes, indeed.]

We must cultivate our own garden. When man was put in the garden of Eden he was put there so that he should work, which proves that man was not born to rest.

Voltaire

[Yeah, but sometimes I need to rest, a lot. Sorry, Voltaire.]

 I don't like formal gardens. I like wild nature. It's just the wilderness instinct in me, I guess.

Walt Disney

[Wilderness is fine, but there better not be any snakes and big bears.]

 The best place to find God is in a garden. You can dig for him there.

George Bernard Shaw

[Good one, George.]

 Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace.

May Sarton

[Maybe I better rethink this gardening thing.]

 Help us to be ever faithful gardeners of the spirit, who know that without darkness nothing comes to birth, and without light nothing flowers.

May Sarton

[Ah, gardening as metaphor—now I can get into that.]

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When I googled “gardening” I discovered mostly info about flower gardens and what I call English gardens—not a kitchen garden that feeds the manor but cultivated and high-maintenance beauties.

Pole beans make hiding places by August.

Then I thought about gardens in my life, and I time-traveled back to childhood—Grandpa Jenkins was the first gardener I remember. When we went to visit him and Grandma at the edge of their little town, there beside the house was a HUGE garden—what I’d call a couple of acres now that I know what that looks like—where Grandpa tilled, planted, cultivated, and harvested every kind of vegetable. I remember especially the tee-pees he made to encourage the beans to vine up. Those made wonderful hiding places in summer if I wanted to get away from my irritating (male) cousins.

We kids often pulled and ate radishes and carrots right out in the garden. Dirt? Well, yeah, there was dirt on them; they grew in the dirt. We wiped it off on our slacks or on the grass, and chomped away.

By August there was always something to can. My mother and her sisters and sisters-in-law came to help Grandma “put up” pints and quarts of beautiful food. Some of the jars went home with the helpers, some stayed at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. My job was washing the jars, because my hands were smaller than those of my mom and aunts. (And also less swollen because I was too young to have arthritis, a family hand-me-down.)

My own adult experiences with gardening have no romance about them, not even in memory—I recall back-breaking work, sweat, mosquitoes (try picking cucumbers at dawn to take to the local pickle factory), more sweat during canning. But for me, it was an eye-opener: my parents and grandparents went to a lot of trouble and toil to provide meals for their tables. Nothing like an aching back and some itchy mosquito bites to drive home a lesson about how food gets to the mouths of our children.

At my time in life, firmly established in retirement, I enjoy the produce grown by others: my daughter and son who are the gardeners in the family; folks who offer their wares at the Farmer’s Market; neighbors and friends with surplus tomatoes/squash/cucumbers on their half-dozen plants that all produced at the same time.

When I miss the camaraderie of the kitchen at harvest time, I go to my daughter’s in Ohio and cut up, slice, or clean whatever’s going; wash dishes, and jars and lids and rings; stir a pot of something that needs to cook a little before being canned (jelly and pasta sauce); rest my weary back and legs for a while and eat a quick lunch; then back to the jar-filling before I head home. Come winter, I’ll spread jam on toast and utter an “ummmm.” And when I can’t think of anything to cook, there’s a jar of pasta sauce on the pantry shelf waiting for my gluten-free pasta to join it for a filling dish. Tomato juice? V-4 juice? Just right for soup. Get out the slow cooker and start putting things in.



Nowadays I’m more of an appreciator than a gardener. But I celebrate and salute all those who really dig gardening. J

 





IF I MIGHT RECOMMEND . . .

Okay. You find yourself standing in front of the Mystery section at the library or book store. You pick up one, read a little, put it back; pick up another one--sound familiar? Happens to me all the time. I like the look of the cover, or the author's name intrigues me, or . . . .

I don’t often recommend books to other readers, partly because I may not know their tastes and partly because of my own less-than-happy experience with books recommended to me.

But if I may--here’s a series you might want to explore if you’re a mystery buff: the Maisie Dobbs stories.

Author Jacqueline Winspear has written 11 volumes so far, starring Maisie Dobbs, a single woman in her early 30s. The series is set in the time between the world wars—beginning in 1929 before the stock market crash in October of that year, and continuing through the decade leading up to what we now call World War II.

Winspear is British by birth, now lives in California, and has a formidable team of researchers and people with long memories to give credibility to her London of the 1930s. While you’re reading a Maisie Dobbs mystery, you’re living history in the making.

What I treasure most is the author’s expertise in presenting a difficult period in world history without descending into sentimentality; it was a bad time, true: many young men had been lost in the Great War, leaving a large majority of a generation of women without husbands and sweethearts. The overriding message--there's more than one--is this: War affects not only those who were in it; those who survive will never be the same. Those survivors include family members and friends on the home front who never saw action on the battlefield.

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Another series, totally different in place, tone, and intention, is the Precious Ramotswe series called The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency mysteries. Some people have disregarded them as too quiet, too blah. But if you take the time to read one, you’ll discover the main character, Mma Ramotswe, is a very wise woman, a compassionate woman, which makes her an ideal detective who can solve all kinds of problems. She may not have a degree from any school, but she has learned much in living in her native Botswana.

Alexander McCall Smith, who created the series, has a long list of novels to his credit—The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency is up to Book 15; but there are also other series and stand-alone novels, plus books for children.

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Probably my favorite author is Josephine Tey (nom de plume for Elizabeth Mackintosh), a Scotswoman who wrote only eight mystery novels, and was better known under another name as a playwright. As Josephine Tey, she wrote the most readable and literary (not always a happy marriage) mystery novels: one deals with murder, another with kidnapping (sort of), a third with a historical mystery that has intrigued Britain for centuries. Although there are a couple of recurring characters, the novels are not a true series.

Tey wrote during a period--1920s into the 1940s--often called the Golden Age of detective fiction. A few of her siblings in crime were Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, John Dickson Carr, Cornell Woolrich, Dorothy L. Sayers, Georges Simenon, Ellery Queen, and Rex Stout (about whom more below).

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I’ll give you one more—another oldie: Rex Stout, creator of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin,  New York City detectives who never age, though their exploits covered over 40 years of American history. Stout wrote novels, short stories, and novellas; many of the short pieces were published in Saturday Evening Post and The American Magazine. Wolfe is eccentric to the point of being insufferable; therefore, Stout very astutely created Archie Goodwin, man about town and attuned to the ways of personable young ladies, to narrate the stories of Wolfe’s genius. Archie, though astute, is one of us and quite approachable. Many of these books and novella collections are still in print; or at least, they’re in print from time to time. Their appeal seems to be ongoing.

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There you have it—my recommendations, if you want them. I've culled a handful from my long list of favorite authors to reread, or look for the latest addition to their body of work. The reason they're favorites? The authors draw me into the story and into the lives of the characters. So escape is a big attraction--I know the mystery will be solved and the world will return to a sense of rightness when I've read the last pages. Beyond that, I feel as if I'm visiting with good friends from another time, people I don't see often, but who live on in my memory.

If you stop by my house sometime, and there’s no answer when you ring the bell, check around back—I may be lounging in the hammock with one of my favorite authors. You can join me, just bring your own book.