I remember when I lived with Granny, all those years back, the people did not have washers and dryers. The everyday workload was done by the women, and it WAS an all day task for some of the things that had to be done manually. Laundry day was an EVENT! Once a week, we would trudge down into the basement, with its field-stone foundation, and unlock the mysterious laundry room. It was a large iron key Granny kept in her frock. Just think, the preparations alone took longer then it takes us today to wash and dry a whole load. Wood needed to be supplied (later we used coal), and supplies had to be brought in by hand. There were so many things in there a little girl must not touch, magical things! A huge, iron cast kettle was filled with rain water and hung over an open fire pit, which was surrounded by low stone walls. I remember the pit was built like a stone oven, somewhat lowered into the ground, but with the top open, and the kettle would almost cover it. When the water was hot, the soap was added, REAL soap, the hard brown one, which smelled so heavenly of earth in the rain, not that fluffy stuff we use today. Those little soap bricks took a while to melt, slowly adding fragrance to the air. The brew turned milky, and the laundry was added and moved around and around with the famous wooden laundry paddle. As the heat grew, the room filled with clouds of steam, soft as a whisper, and the dreaming could begin. There were many shapes in those clouds, many friends to keep me company while Granny stirred and stirred the paddle. Only looking back do I realize the drowsing effect of stirring the cauldron :)

Depending on how dirty things were, it could take hours for a load to be clean. The pieces of cloth had to be fished out with large wooden thongs and were placed in a metal tub. Amongst much whooping and puffing (for they were scalding hot) they were rubbed with more soap and rhythmically scrubbed along the washboard. I can't help it, but even today the image of Granny's hands, red and soft from the hot water, is the most comforting one that I can remember.

Many more tubs of fresh water were used to rinse out the soap before the last (man-powered) machine from the past was coming into use: the wringer. Who has not seen them at old garage sales, long forgotten, but oh, filled with so many memories, so many stories to tell. A large round wooden tub was mounted with what to my eyes looked like a torture contraption :) On a stand fitting onto the rim of the tub, two metal bars rolled against each other, being turned with a giant crank. It took years before I was allowed to 'man' that piece, proudly rolling and rolling, sometimes half asleep, and not always paying attention to stop rolling in time to prevent the piece from falling back into the water (or worse, over the side onto the now wet and sooty floor). I'm quite sure Granny must have thought several times that I was more trouble than help, but she never said a word.

It seems to my memory that all laundry was white back then, and of a sheerness and softness which our modern beds can only dream of. Sheets thin as a whisper, were bleached in the sun, laid out on the grass in the yard. Sometimes, when the weather was hot, or the work was done early, we would lay in between the sheets on the grass and watch the clouds. The small pieces were strung up above us in long rows, held to the rope with wooden clamps, flapping merrily in the wind. These memories will always be with me, and when I close my eyes, I am five years old again. During summer, these smells would be with me at night, oh, the smells of summer and bees and blue skies.... the image of the warm wind on my skin. All exhausted but satisfied. Did ever a child drift off to sleep with happier thoughts?

It seems that everything requested a lot more work half a century ago, but somehow, I would rather spend hours together with all the women of the family to share in the tasks, then climb into my lonely basement today to fill a monster who does not know me, even if it does my job for me. Back then, all those chores were part of life. Real life, methinks, not just odd work we try to do in between holding down a full time job and raising a family. It seemed Granny was never moaning (oh gawd, I have to do laundry again), and actually enjoyed what she was doing.

Do you remember ironing? All that laundry had to be ironed the next day, and I mean ALL of it. Tissues, undies, napkins, and the huge sheets. They were dampened slightly with a sprinkler (in Granny's case, a bowl of water and the twist of a wet hand - it took me years to get the hang of doing that just right and not drowning it again). The cast-iron stove in the huge kitchen was already hissing fiercely, the wood was crackling inside, turning the top fire red. For the irons needed to be heated on the glowing top. Two irons, so heavy I could not lift them as a child, one in use, one to re-heat. Granny used to check their readiness by spitting onto her fingertips and smacking them briefly on the bottom of the metal. When it hissed, it was hot enough. Anybody else pulling that stunt would have lost half a hand in the process, but not even an iron would touch Gramma. Every once in a while the bottoms of those little ships (that's what they looked like to me) had to be polished with steel wool, to prevent rust and keep them gliding (::snort:: my only attempt with them things - for sentimental reasons - rendered a hole as big as Cuba into the coversheet AND into the blanket underneath .... sliding my FOOT! Lucky I did not attempt to actually iron clothes).

Every piece was folded in a particular pattern, dishtowels three times from the side to the middle, napkins into quarters, and so on. Have you ever wondered why you fold your clothes the way you do? I know :) It came from watching Granny half my life.

When Granny past, I found some of those old things way back in the closets, and they all hold special places in my house now. I kept her old bedroom furniture, the treasure sanctum of my childhood nights, and while my bed is now squeaking with every move, and is considerably shorter then what I'm used to, I also have her thick down feather mattresses, the blessed sheets, now thin as elfen wings, and the distinct feeling of Granny's spirit around me. Every night. May all the heirlooms hold as much love as mine.

When we had her house cleaned out and nobody paid attention, I said goodbye in my own way. I snuck down to the basement. Long renovated, with no trace of the old stove, I sat alone, eyes closed, on the cold stone floor. And it did not take all that long for the spirit of generations of women to make their presence known. Before I left, I could again smell the soap and the sun. I could hear the laughter, the singing, the wood cracking, steam hissing, and the rhythmic moves of hands on the washboard.

Grandmothers live forever

© Sorceress SummerWind, September 1998