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Maxine's Story
Washday
Anyone who romanticizes the 'good old days' has apparently forgotten washday! There wasn't one thing romantic about that day! The poet who wrote "Monday's Child is full of Woe" had it right as far as I was concerned---and I wasn't the one doing the washing. I hated washday! Monday! My Mother's strict routine didn't impress me at all---I liked order in my life, and good dinners on the table. But I knew what to expect on washday. For one thing, dinner was just going to be beans---evidently the easiest of all dinners. She surely didn't have the time or the energy to either cook or bake much else.
The kitchen had piles of clothes everywhere---unless it was summertime. In that case she washed outside. That was kind of fun and the house wasn't all messed up---at least the kitchen wasn't, and that was my favorite place. I didn't like the smell of washday. Soap of my childhood was just that---soap---and not the pretty perfumed detergents we now use. Fels Naphtha had an OK chemical kind of smell, but homemade soap was awful. Then there was the lye water that Mother boiled her white clothes in! Or the purex that bleached other things. Wet clothes didn't smell all that great either. The bluing didn't seem to have much odor and I did like the beautiful rinse water.
Sometimes I got to mix the corn starch and water and stir them over the stove until they boiled and thickened. Which was at least interesting .... (somehow corn starch has stayed exactly the same over the years, box and all it seems to me---and the smell!)
It all began before I was even out of bed. The water was pumped and brought into the house and poured into the oblong galvanized tub that we called a 'double boiler'. This was placed on the wood stove, where there was a roaring hot fire. This wasn't much fun in the hot summertime, but then we had to have a fire in order to prepare meals.
After the hot water was dipped into two round galvanized tubs, one for soap and one for rinsing, cold water was added, and the washboard was brought out. Starting with the whites, all were thoroughly scrubbed and then wrung out---from the cleanest and whitest to the darkest and grimiest work clothes. All were then hung out on the clothes line. If it was raining, you did whatever you had to, to get those clothes dry. Sometimes lines on porches, sometimes even in the house. If it froze they hung there and dried stiff as a board, but they would dry. If a dust storm came along, you rushed out and grabbed everything---only to hang it all back up later. What you hoped for was a sunny day with a little breeze. Then you would have the best smelling clothes there ever were! Going to bed that night in those clean white fragrant sheets was quite wonderful!
Of course most of the laundry had to be sprinkled with water and rolled up tightly and put into a laundry basket and covered with a towel, ready to be ironed on Tuesday---but that is another story!
When I hear today's women complain about washday, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. My Grandmother Sabin raised eleven children knowing no other way to launder. My Mother did eventually get a wringer washing machine, and thought it to be the world's greatest invention! It was the lot of women to do whatever it took to keep clean clothes on her family. The women of her generation took great pride in their 'whites" actually being pristine snow-white! Certainly not 'tattle-tale-gray', a phrase coined by a soap company, and then adopted into our dictionaries by common usage. It is interesting to me that this is no longer true. Sheets and dish towels aren't white, and too often those articles of clothing that are, get into mixed loads of other colors, and turn out badly, and are tossed away. (Or worse, continue to be used.) And the dictionary no longer carries the phrase 'tattle-tale-gray' .
Progress? Well I for one, am not about to give up my automatic washing machine---and my peach colored sheets smell just fine!
*****
Assignment for May 16,2001: Using first line from a newspaper story about Grandmothers. (My Grandmother never left very much behind ... ) Here is my story about my Grandmother Sabin.
My Grandmother never left very much behind---after all, she never had very much to begin with. That is if treasures of the world are the only criterion! For her greatest legacy was her goodness. This saintly woman, who raised her eleven children in a three room house with few amenities---not even running water---lived out her life, sweetly and tirelessly serving others.
In 1918, Josephine Sabin as a young mother with a growing family, left her home and went into those homes that were stricken with the flue, to help care for the dying. "The Lord will take care of me" was her attitude and apparently He did. That dreadful epidemic passed them by.
Ever subservient to her husband, she allowed him to completely direct her life---even to the point of shopping for her clothing and shoes. He just brought them home to her. She had no time for decision making, nor for shopping, even if she had money, which of course, she didn't. Fortunately Grandpa was a kind man, albeit chauvinistic!
There was little to divide at her death.(Grandpa's death had preceded hers by two years.) What hadn't been used up or worn out, was divided among those who living close by, had cared for her.
My Mother, her eldest daughter, lived in Oregon, and received nothing. As the years went by she grew somewhat bitter that she had no remembrances of her Mother's life. Not being one to "suffer in silence", she made it known to her family. Which sister it was I know not, but one dear peacemaker saw to it that Mother received her treasure!
Now there was little of beauty in my Grandma's home, yet this belated prized possession was beautiful ---though surely not expensive---a diamond-cut glass, peach colored fruit bowl!
Mother, apparently in the early stages of dementia, found it to be of no interest or value to her, simply stored it away in the far back of a large seldom used cabinet. For many years, out of sight, and out of mind---until the time came to downsize and move.
Suddenly I realized that Mother's possessions were being bought by an antique dealer. Little of what she had was of any value to me, so I really didn't object---until I remembered that peach glass bowl---my Grandma's bowl!
Asking for it did little good---she was offered twenty dollars for it she said. Why didn't I simply offer her more? It was the principle of the thing I suppose---I had cared for my Mother for several years, and that bowl was the only 'reward' I wanted---and as the oldest grandchild, felt I had a right to have it! I begged her not to sell it---she had no need for more money. I explained that in a family with so few treasures, it was priceless!
Mother, even in an advanced stage of dementia, had her own mind about such things---and it was only after her last move, into a retirement home, that I found the precious bowl---hidden again in the back of another cabinet. My Grandma's youngest daughter, Aunt Margaret, visiting my home several years ago, saw 'my' bowl---and almost weeping, explained that it was given to her parents as an anniversary present. I promptly gave the bowl to her! But she refused it---saying that it should belong to me.
And so it sits on my kitchen counter top---a constant reminder of my heritage---a Grandmother who lived a Christ-like life---unselfish and serving others. I know now how she used her bowl. It held the bottled fruit, served with the homemade bread and fresh 'cow's' milk that constituted supper. I don't need a picture nor a painting---I can see that simple scene in my mind---with the family kneeling around the table in prayer. These are my people. On second thought, my Grandmother left a great deal behind!
Pages 56 - 60
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