Hung Out to Dry

 

 

 

Hung Out to Dry

I love my clothes dryer.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the smell of fresh clothes hung outdoors, but in my fast-paced life that aroma is a distant memory. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I have many friends today with a clothesline. I’d be happy if spray starch came in that outdoorsy aroma, but then again, I’d have to use an iron to get the effect. 

Someone once told me that when I hear the comment “They don’t make things like they used to,” that the proper response often should be “Thank God.” Laundry is one of those subjects. I repeat, I love my dryer, but then again, I also love its good buddy, the automatic washer. I’m old enough to remember its predecessor and we’ve come a long way, baby.

My mom worked two jobs while I was growing up. On Saturdays she only worked at night so Saturday morning began our laundry day.

Always a slug-a-bed, I would awaken late to the sound of her wheeling the squeaky, big-tubbed machine down the back hall.  She had to move the kitchen table to maneuver it next to the sink then fill it with a hose attached to the faucet. The hose was formed into a hard hook at one end to hang on the side of the tub as it filled. I often think of that today as I pull my kitchen faucet out to rinse the sink. 

Having already lit the water heater while perking her first cup of coffee, Mom filled the washer with the first all-white load in the hottest water possible. Our two beds, towels and underwear required two white loads which she’d wash for about twelve or fifteen minutes each. Steam would be rising from the fat tub as I‘d stumble into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and yawning.  She always grinned, chirping, “Well, good morning merry sunshine, and how are you today?” 

“Mornin’” I’d murmur, slumping into a chair in the tiny, cramped kitchen. Mom made breakfast between loads and I’d gradually come alive over my eggs to the rhythm of the agitator beating the clothes clean. It all sounded like the washday blues to me. But Mom never complained as she worked the clothes through the wringer, into the deep sink for rinsing, back through the wringer and kerplunk, into the laundry basket. While the next load washed, she headed down the back hall to hang the first basketful.

Our apartment was on the second floor of a rambling old house with a family of rambunctious boys downstairs. Their mother hung her laundry on a series of clotheslines set in one corner of the big, square backyard. Bea did her huge laundry on Mondays like most stay-at-home mothers. Not having that luxury, my mother hung our wash on a pulley line that ran from our upstairs hall window to the large pear tree across the yard. And during the school year, Saturday was the day the Flynn boys wanted to play in the backyard, preferably baseball. Our clean, wet sheets cut diagonally through the infield – the pear tree was first base. The boys grumbled, but since their mother wasn’t sympathetic, they batted balls into the towels and jumped high trying to slap the bottom of the sheets. This usually lasted only until my mother appeared again at the upstairs window.

The rattley, old window pulled down from the top; our bag of clothespins hung nearby. Mom would pick each wet item out of the basket, snapping it hard to release the wrinkles from the wringer, and lean out the window to hang it.  Sheets took more than two clothespins and I can still picture her with a few in her mouth while she struggled to keep the sheets from hitting the side of the house.  She hung everything as close together as possible to conserve space then reel the line out after each addition.  The line sagged heavier, creaking with each added wash load, until the first item hit the pulley at the pear tree.  I do remember that once or twice through the years, the clothesline gave up the ghost, snapping and dropping Mom's entire washday onto the ground. The landlord grumbled from his ladder as he replaced it, but maybe not as much as my overworked mother redoing her laundry.

One of my early jobs was bringing in the dry wash. I wasn’t tall enough at age eight to lean out the high open window so I stood on a box and reached out. I can still feel the top of the window frame digging into my armpits while I balanced and stretched at the same time. The clothesline sagged much less when everything was dry, light enough that I could manage to tug the line in. I don’t remember when everything got folded, but I do remember that crisp aroma as the dishtowels and my undershirts came in through the window. Once in a while my chore was a race with dark rain clouds and I can still put the smell of impending showers and fresh clothes together in my memory. 

As I grew older, I helped Mom by hanging the clothes out, learning from watching her methods. There was, however, no lesson for frozen laundry.  My fingers numbed quickly hanging the wet clothes into the icy air wind.  Harvesting them was only a little better.  It turned out that leaving them until the warmest part of the afternoon helped a bit, but a dress seemingly made of frozen wood is hard to pull in through an overhead window.  Like I said, I dearly love my dryer.

On some of those frigid days, only necessary items were washed.  Our underwear went onto a drying rack in the tub and was spread on towels draped over the radiators.  No Chinese laundry ever smelled any better than our house on a February Saturday.

In those days, dry cleaners weren’t even discussed as a possibility.  My mother washed everything, wool skirts, wool sweaters and cotton dresses which had at least a thousand pleats, all to be set by hand at the ironing board.  Time was such a premium in our household that sometimes, when the sprinkled, rolled clothes couldn’t be ironed before they’d mold, they went into the freezer to await processing. 

As Mom worked more hours, I gradually learned to iron.  My mind has blocked out the scorching accidents and the mistakes I made melting the early synthetics.  I think I can still smell that memory too.  Did I mention that I love my dryer? … especially now as the cotton/poly blends and knits pop put wrinkle free.

            My mother, who today does more laundry than any single human I have ever known, has one of those nifty stackable units, washer on the bottom, dryer on the top.  And although she, too, loves the fresh, outdoorsy aroma and still hangs her personals on a wooden rack in the tub, I know she wouldn’t trade for a clothesline.  She’s a smart woman with her priorities right - she also loves her dryer.  For such a small family, our affections run deep.

Befriending the Pig

 

 

Befriending the Pig

 October 2022

Some of my closest relationships are with appliances.

I mingle more with mixers, dishwashers and dryers than I do with my books and my computer. Oh wait. That’s another appliance. I guess it’s fair to say a large chunk of my day is spent with the steely looks of the Plug-In Gang. Hard to call them friends when the only words between us are my annoyances when they don’t cooperate. Except for the icemaker. I adore my icemaker. He happily fills my cold drink demands all day long.

I get along with the stove pretty well, although I’ve had words with his brother, the oven. And the refrigerator better hang in there. He was an emergency overnight replacement for an older cousin who sadly died before his time, at age 12.

And then there’s the garbage disposal. In an early suburban apartment, I had my first dishwasher, first icemaker, and first garbage disposal. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven – for just a year and a half. Then we bought our first house, in the Connecticut countryside. The pretty house had been well tended, and sported both an icemaker and a new dishwasher. But it also had a septic system. And as I learned more about country living, septic systems and garbage disposals do not share happy relationships.

We finally had a house, and being spoiled, I felt like I’d gone backwards. Cantaloupe guts, potato peelings, and fur-bearing leftovers had to be handled… in garbage bags that rapidly smelled in spring, summer, and early fall days. I was young. Wasn’t it bad enough that we had Pampers to deal with?

When we moved again, it was into a dream house with every kitchen amenity – except a garbage disposal. Another country septic system. And then we moved to Warren.

Our “new” house was old – 1868. The 1941 kitchen had to go. When planning its replacement, the icemaker and the “sink pig” hovered around the top of my list.

And so, I moved into a permanent relationship with the long-awaited disposal. Frankly, it’s been a bit rocky. But to give it its due, I was at fault in most of our skirmishes. I had read that they don’t like potato or carrot peels, pasta, rice, shrimp shells, eggshells or coffee grounds. I began to wonder if it’s that fussy, what’s the point? I skipped the shrimp shells.

At first, I filled it every night with scraps from dinner preparations. A little reading indicated that grinding up lemon rinds freshened the house, and a bowl of ice cubes helps to keep the blades sharpened. (See how great it is to have an icemaker?) I was on top of this. I didn’t send down bones, corn cobs or celery. I ignored those dire warning about carrot peels, eggs, and coffee grounds. And when the first backup came, I was devastated. I learned that plumbers don’t much like disposals – neither the under-sink venue nor the narrow opening.

Clogging happened 3 or 4 times in that house – over 27 years. We had a double sink so when there was a backup, it was in both sinks. Two major clogs were on days before Thanksgiving when washing dishes in the powder room was not an option.

And I learned a little more. When one neighbor moved, she threw most of a container of cornmeal down her the disposal and ran very little water. It turned to yellow cement and all the plumbing in the kitchen had to be replaced. I learned not to put in grease and I began to hear more warnings about eggshells and coffee grounds.

In the 17 years in this house, I’ve only had to call the plumber once about the sink pig. Until last week.

I had just finished a cooking afternoon and the disposal ran just fine. As I restored sparkle to the kitchen. I found a lemon past its warranty and tossed it down. The water backed up a bit, but I didn’t notice it was in the main sink also. I turned the disposal back on, only to have a 3-foot-high geyser explode out of both sinks. It probably took two seconds to fly to the switch, but during that time the window, the nearby cabinets, the counter appliances, the floor, and the top half of me became covered in coffee grounds and ¼” eggshell shrapnel.

My two-plunger, do-it-yourself method failed. A call to the plumber, another long cleanup, and a shower were the final cost of not listening to the experts.

I’m now a believer. Our eggshells and coffee grounds are heading for the garden in a new compost crock.

And I speak sweet nothings to Little Piggy. I am feeding him organic lettuce trimmings. It’s time to solidify our friendship.

 

 

 

 

Happiness is a lifetime investment

 Happiness is a lifetime investment

Last weekend, CBS Sunday Morning’s feature about “Happiness” was not a total surprise.  What could be a better subject for television’s second happiest show, second only to Sesame Street?

Since its beginning over 40 years ago, I’ve happily watched this TV magazine offer features of everyone from the band U2 to chef Ina Garten, and everything from migrating monarch butterflies to Ferrari manufacturing in Italy. It’s always new knowledge, perfect for a Nosy Nellie like me, curious about everything. Last week’s lead story was Happiness, and even academia weighed in.

 Harvard has been studying Adult Development for 84 years (even JFK was a participant). One of the study’s important subjects is happiness. Turns out that happiness comes not from money, looks, or fame, but from meaningful relationships at every level.

Lifelong happiness is a life filled with friendship. It begins with Sharing, and moves through stages: Comfort, Security, and Intimacy – no, not THAT Intimacy. Sharing your deepest feelings in the relationship is the final step.

I started thinking about my friends and our individual relationships to each other; they grew from different times, places and experiences. My best friend, Ginger, in New York City and I go back to the beginning of our work lives in the Big Apple. We were wide-eyed newbies, thrown together in training at American Airlines. We became roommates first, then friends. Then good friends. Then best friends. It all began with sharing.

We shared more than a crummy one-bedroom apartment, utility bills, and Oreos. We shared everyday chitchat about the job: crew members, turbulence, celebrities, heartwarming experiences and lecherous passengers. We became comfortable with each other. Gradually, we began to share our beliefs, our opinions, and our personal histories. By then we were sharing cold spaghetti for breakfast. And mostly we laughed. That was important. Not everyone we knew laughed – or cried – at the same things we did.

Genuine caring easily followed as our friendship grew and extended to each other’s wedding parties and continued into our lives with anniversaries, Godparenthood, weekends, illnesses, family funerals. We still remember each other’s original wedding day, although we lost both those men. Years after, we still reach out on our deceased husbands’ birthdays. That’s Intimacy. I know she hurts on that heart-memory day, just as much as I do on mine.

 Security in a relationship is when we know that we can absolutely, positively depend on the other person – for anything. Bail money? Wire cutters? Well, not exactly. But if I did have those needs … Ginger would find a way.

 A few years ago, during a January blizzard in Boston, I was trying to fly back to Buffalo. After 16 hours of delays, cancellations, and rerouting, Ginger picked me up in New York (!) at 3 A.M. and drove me straight to her guest room. Six hours later, she delivered me back to the airport for my new flight with a warm breakfast in my tummy and enough good sleep to drive from Buffalo to home. We should all have at least one person to call at 3:00 A.M. Even Harvard’s study agreed.

Regular readers know that I talk to people – strangers – and sometimes they become acquaintances. Most are just passers-by, but 99% of the time, that short chat brightens my day. Friendships take time, and truth be told, a bit of work. But a meaningful relationship is worth the investment.

One of the Sunday Morning experts offered a formula for creating relationships: 50 hours to make a comfortable acquaintance. Then, 90 hours to make a good friend, and 200 hours to make a best friend. Personally, I would say those are minimums. Being a person of the elderly persuasion, I’ve had some friends for many moons. I count my time investment in decades.

The friends from w-a-a-a-y back include my hometown bestie of 70 years, and the aforementioned Ginger, 60 years. Over time, wonderful women have come into my life in other jobs, towns, churches, clubs, volunteering and across the card table. I’ve been enriched by their friendships, learned from all of them, and can honestly say I have come to love them.

 I’ve even made a new dear friend through this column who lives in another state. She is sharing, caring, and comfortable, all the basics for a meaningful relationship. And I’ve been blessed with a handful of men whose friendships I treasure.

We all want to be happy. Maybe, as Americans, we think happiness is our birthright. Fuggedaboudit. The founding fathers only wrote about the PURSUIT of happiness. Finding that happiness is up to us.

Today, I’m going to tell a friend I love her. She is part of my happiness, the very best dividend of investing in friendship.

 

 

 

 

 

A passion for the hog

 

A Hell’s Angel wouldn’t be my first choice in a life partner, but I never met one I didn’t like. I think I have figured out why. They’re happy. They are doing what a lot of us wish we could – put our cares away, hop on our Harley Davidsons … and GO! Noisy wanderlust.

Every one of those bearded dudes I have talked to is kind, fun, and unfailingly polite. Must be that white-haired ladies tame their beast. Frankly, I’m just plain jealous of their rides.

Getting out of my car last week in the supermarket parking lot, I stopped in my tracks. A motorcycle was parked next to me, but not just any motorcycle. The shimmering black Harley Davidson was showroom shiny and tricked out with more chrome than my eyes could handle on a bright sunny day. The Hog sparkled like an 8-foot black diamond.  

While I stood checking out the Harley, two tweenage girls were walking toward me heading for the store. Wearing cut-off short shorts and small halter tops, they bopped along to their earpod music, sipping sodas. They glanced at me checking out the bike’s details, and I saw one roll her eyes. They jabbed elbows at each other and laughed their way into the store. I could read their thoughts as if they were clouds over their heads: “What’s that old lady doing checking out a motorcycle? Whadda joke! Yah, ‘magine her riding one of those things.”

Little did they know that I was reminiscing back to my handful of Harley experiences. I could almost feel the summer wind in my face thinking about one college summer on Cape Cod. That year, my bicycle sat on the porch. Between restaurant shifts, I straddled the back seat while hugging my Harley driver to and from the beach, work and home. I never got to drive it, but I didn’t have to in order to love the bike’s throaty voice and its daring angled turns. Well over 50 years ago, we didn’t wear helmets or leather jackets, but we were riding the Cape’s country roads, not interstates. At the end of that summer, the bike’s owner took his gorgeous Harley and his almost-gorgeous self, back to Oberlin College and I never saw either of them again. Ah, summer.

About twenty years ago, my BFF invited me to her family’s annual beach gathering at the Outer Banks. My son, a Marine lieutenant, was in the process of moving to a North Carolina beach town about 250 miles south of the Outer Banks. He also received an invitation to the house party and was waiting when we arrived. After big hugs, I said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t see it” He grinned.

“I left it home and rode up on my new toy,” he said. And then he proceeded to tell me how he’d always wanted a Harley Davidson. (I never knew that). He had received some extra money on his previous assignment and thought, “Hey, I’m 26, single, and I can manage it – if not now, when?” He reassured me that he had taken lessons and passed the state licensing requirements. We went down to the yard to check it out – a blue Harley Softail Heritage Classic. A beauty. Then came the kicker. “Mom, everybody knew – everyone but you.”

“W-H-A-T?” I said. I was offended.

“Well, I knew you’d be upset about it and I didn’t want you to worry.”

I remember smirking and glaring at him all at the same time. “Worry? WORRY? You fly cobra attack helicopters carrying missiles, rockets and canons while snipers shoot at you from rooftops. And you think I’m going to worry about a stupid motorcycle?” He shrugged, but he was still grinning.

“Oh, and who is everyone who knows except me?” His Dad, sister, all the O’Brien cousins, and all his friends were sworn to secrecy. Everyone knew but moi. I added, “I guess you never noticed the scar on my right calf from a manifold burn, huh?”  It was his turn to squirm.

I said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll forgive you this time, but only if you give me a ride on it.”

“Mom, I only have one helmet.”

“Well,” I smiled, “you’ll have to solve that problem.” He did, the next morning.

The 40-minute ride was everything I remembered. He had good skills, I was comfortable, and that ocean breeze – that same ocean that laps at Cape Cod – was divine.

I think I have one more ride in me, despite what those teeny-boppers think they know. My son sold his Harley years ago. Dear Richard would love one, but THAT’S not going to happen. I guess if I ever want to sit astride a putt-putting Hog again, I have to ask a Hell’s Angel. Next time they come through town, I might just do that.