Cotton and Clotheslines

(Photo of my clothesline in Ojai, CA.)

Yesterday was ironing day. Not my favorite chore, but one I don’t despise as I do, say, scrubbing the toilet. I rather like the gurgle of hot water, hiss of steam, and smell of damp cotton. As the iron glides across the hem of a shirt or the edge of a pillowcase, and the wrinkles release, memories come back hot and heavy as the chore itself.

Grandma did laundry the old-fashioned way; an all-day affair. In the morning she sorted the whites from the colors down in the basement where she filled the pink and white, wringer washing machine with water and added soap until a fragrant froth developed. She always started with the bed linens, dropping sheets and pillowcases into the machine one by one, while my sister and I stared hypnotized by the rhythmic twist-turn of the agitator.

When the machine fell quiet, Grandma hoisted the dead weight of the wet linens into the double sink and swirled them in clear water. After two rinses, she fed them into the washer’s rollers, where they squeezed out the other side, paper flat, as us girls guided them into the waiting wicker basket.

We followed Grandma like ducklings, with her heavy load, out of the dim cellar into the sunny backyard where cedar waxwings and kingfishers dove after dragonflies alongside the pond. Although a petite woman, Grandma would sling a heavy, wet sheet over the clothesline with ease and pull a clothespin from her apron pocket, securing the sheet to the line. One by one, she hung like-item next to like-item until the rope sagged with the weight. Basket empty, it was time to let the sun and wind perform their magic, and for Grandma to begin washing another load. My sister and I would help sporadically, often times too happy to settle into the grass hunting for four-leaf clovers and forget-me-nots, comforted by the flap and snap of the sheets in the wind.

By early afternoon, the wash was dry and once again put into the wicker basket and carried up to the kitchen. It was here, that Grandma showed off her talent in earnest. She folded the sheets twice, lengthwise, and draped them across the ironing board before sprinkling them with water from a repurposed 7-Up bottle. She tested the heat of the iron by tapping the surface with a spit-wettened thumb, and if the iron was hot enough, it was put down with a thump and pulled across the sheet with determination. No wrinkle stood a chance with the iron in the hands of the master.

A sheet would rest only an hour or two in a neat symmetrical stack, before Grandma snapped it open and let it float down on the mattress. By late afternoon, each bed in the house was neatly tucked and fitted.

When darkness settled in, we’d bathe, dress in freshly laundered baby-doll pajamas, and let Grandma brush our hair. She’d open the bedroom window to the night air and the incessant singing of the tiny, green frogs we called peepers. The chenille bedspread was pulled back, and our skinny bodies skated across the smooth cool of the sheets.

I can still feel my sleepy head plunge into the down pillow. After good night kisses and lights out, the smell of wind and sunshine cradled us. Sleep was deep and sweet, just like the memories.