A topic arose recently, relating to stepping carefully around mounds of laundry. That gives me a great instant visual. I see a Dr. Seuss sketch, an old-fashioned laboratory, with boilers, oversized pots, steam, clotheslines criss-crossing the vast space. He could have called it “Washday on 51st Street.”
Mom’s washday was quite complicated in the early days. She had a large wringer washing machine. It was a step up from the hand scrubbing with homemade soap. She used two large galvanized tubs, one for rinsing and one for holding the wet clothing.
The laundry had to be sorted: delicates, whites, coloured, heavy. She began with the delicates, washing gently. She put the soapy items through the wringer and then placed them into the rinse water. More hot water and a little more Oxydol went into the wash cycle and the whites were added. She rinsed by hand or with a long-handled wooden spoon.
The rinsed fabrics were carefully fed through the wringer and into the empty tub. I seem to recall that she turned the items inside out so that the buttons were protected from the wringer. While the next load washed and the well water steamed in the copper boilers on the cookstove, the wet clothing had to be manhandled outside to hang on the clothesline.
We were enlisted to help as much as possible. Carol and I carried water most of our early years. Warren’s responsibility was to keep the woodbox filled. We all helped to hang up the wet laundry, as we were able. We learned to be careful to add the support pole partway along the line. We certainly didn’t want to have to report that the line had fallen down.
Mom graduated to lugging the entire monstrosity into Sundre to the laundromat. I remember thinking with admiration what a vast improvement having automatic machines made to her workload.
When we moved into Olds, we had our own washer and dryer in the basement. Mom still used her clothesline as much as possible. She eventually joined Dad working at the high school but would phone home to announce, “Quick, get the clothes off the line. There’s a storm coming.”
When I married we joined the throngs lined up in the laundromat. In those years having your own machines was a luxury. We moved frequently for work opportunities and rental properties were usually not well equipped.
For lighter laundry, we actually washed in our bathtub. The clothing soaked awhile, and then we used a clean toilet plunger to agitate. It worked well. Pull the plug and add clean water for the rinse cycle. As we couldn’t wring the water out very well, the drying process took much longer.
The regular treks to the laundromat weren’t so bad when we only had one child. When the second arrived, the mounds of dirty wash multiplied and the trips across town juggling children was a much more complex endeavour. I filled the car with large black garbage bags of soiled laundry and bundled up two protesting kids for the duration. It took only one of those trips by himself for Rob to snap.
He had enough laundry for three or four loads. The only other person there had all of the machines in operation. She strategically tried to ignore his presence. With a little lack of grace he insisted that he had the right to use the equipment as well when one finally completed its cycle. That was all she ever gave up, one machine.
By the time he staggered home, fuming, we were the proud owners of a stackable unit. It was very small but a great improvement. I was able to supply us with clean clothes and the boys remained at home building forts and castles in their own domain.
I still had mounds of laundry to feed through the cycles. The stackable unit had to sit in my already crowded galley kitchen; the washer was designed to attach to the kitchen sink. Any hand scrubbing or spot treatment had to be completed in the bathroom, at the only other sink.
With growing boys, there was enough laundry to fit into my imaginary Dr. Seuss laboratory with its multitude of workers. Mine held just me and occasionally one small but willing worker that I sent running upstairs for a second check for stray items. How do socks always go missing? Under the bed, in the toy box, behind the door? I suspect they were missiles, rolled up and knotted for better aim.
- Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
