The well water was so hard it curdled the soap; instead, snow was hauled in on wash days — which was always on Monday
It was rather a pleasant task in spring, summer and fall to hang the laundry on the clothesline that swung between two maple trees in our big front yard.
One year my dad got one of his old work boots soaking wet and hung it by the laces over the clothesline to dry. A pair of wrens promptly built their nest in it. Having a soft spot for wildlife, Dad bought new boots rather than disturb the wrens.
So, while birds chirped, squirrels scolded and a gentle south breeze billowed through an assortment of family clothes and bedding, I hung out the wash to dry.
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But then came winter.
Each Monday (and it had to be Monday) extra armloads of wood had to be carried in to stoke up the fire in advance of heating the wash water in the copper boiler sitting on top of the McClary kitchen stove. Water had to be pumped from a well about 15 feet from the back door and we carried it in by the pails full — the only running water we knew.
It was such intolerably hard water it curdled the soap and when winter came, Mom insisted we carry in snow on wash day. It took a lot of trips to fill that copper boiler and all that snow created a decided chill in the house, requiring yet more wood for the fire. As a lazy teenager, I secretly wondered why we just couldn’t go dirty.
Meanwhile, the wringer washer was pulled out to the centre of the kitchen, the clothes sorted into piles and the wash machine filled with hot water. Someone was conscripted to pull the lever back and forth on the side of the washing machine to engage the agitator. Watching the clothes swish around was mesmerizing at first, but I soon wearied of the chore and pawned it off onto the next available pair of arms.
My mechanically inclined teenage brother eventually rigged a Briggs and Stratton motor to the washing machine and stuck the exhaust out the window. From then on, wash day was a curious mix of smells—soap, wood smoke, gasoline fumes and a pork roast baking in the oven for lunch.
After the white clothes were put through the wringer, Mom dipped them into water mixed with bluing. It came in little square cubes and she had to be cautious about using it or we would all be wearing shirts a faint shade of blue instead of the bright white that was intended. Clothes requiring pressing were then dipped in starch water and wrung out one more time.
One load after another having been put through the same water, from lights to darks, it was time to brave the elements and hang the clothes outside, where they were supposed to freeze dry. In reality they just turned stiff as boards and were brought back inside to thaw on a wooden clothes horse. The suits of underwear sometimes took on fantastic shapes and I imagined them belonging to local characters in the community.
The wash water was carried out and emptied on the garden plot, where if conditions were just right, the hens in spring would have their own skating rink for a week or two.
Come Tuesday morning, the kitchen stove was once more loaded with wood to heat the “sad irons.” They had detachable handles and as one cooled down, it was replaced with its alternate. As a preschooler, I was given the task of pressing small items like handkerchiefs. My ironing board was a heavy flannel sheet folded on a wooden chair. I liked that job.
With automatic washers and dryers, Monday is no longer the only laundry day and clotheslines have all but disappeared. While teaching a granddaughter how to sew, I instructed her to press open the seams. She seemed hesitant when I plugged in the iron and she exclaimed, “oh, I’ve never used one of those before.”
She’s 19.
Modern conveniences have their advantages but there are days when I wish I had a clothesline, mainly because there is no perfume as fresh as the smell of clean clothes dried outside.
