Pre-wash Day

Washday at the house on the hill was always on Monday unless canceled by rain, in which case it happened the very next available day. It was preceded by certain almost ritualistic preparations; water was pumped, beds changed, clothes sorted, and Daddy tricked into changing clothes. To Daddy, changing clothes was an inconvenience and an unnecessary nuisance. Mama always put his clean clothes out on Sunday morning and took his dirty ones to the closet in the back room.

The back room played an important part in the lives of folks when I was growing up. It took the place of utility rooms, guest rooms and closets. It most often served as a bedroom for those needing less privacy, and more often the latest out of Mama and Daddy's room. It also served as a repository for the dirty clothes, canned goods, rags and broken things. The dirty clothes were in baskets or on the floor in the make shift closet in a corner of the back room.

The closet was a corner in the back room. In the summer time the outside door and the door leading to the kitchen opened back to make a triangular closet. A flimsy sheet hung on a string from one door facing to the other hiding the dirty clothes and the slop jar in the winter. The closet itself was a favorite place for kids. It would have made a perfect hiding place had it not been the only place to hide. It did, however, serve as an occasional place of solitude until you were discovered.

The evening before wash day, Mama would pull a cane bottom chair into the back room from the kitchen, throw the sheet concealing the closet over its string, and take her seat. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and began a task she thoroughly enjoyed, sorting the clothes. She did this just before going to bed the night before wash day.

Sorting the clothes was a job much too important to be trusted to amateures. Mama sorted the clothes by color and importance. School clothes were important. Work clothes were not. The clothes were sorted and washed in this order; whites, colors, towels, work clothes and rags. But this was not a simple task. Washday was an all day thing. When I refer to whites, I mean all three loads of them, sheets, underwear, white blouses and shirts. The colors were the dresses, the everyday clothes, the boy's shirts and pants, and then Mama's aprons. The work clothes were washed next and last of all, the rags.

Towels had not been a problem until one of the married kids gave Mama some. Until then we had always used the skirts of dresses whose waist had worn out. These easily fit into the everyday colors. Real towels presented a problem for Mama. The lint lingered in the water and clung to the rest of the wash.

Bobbie and I filled huge tubs with water the afternoon before washday. This meant endless trips from the pump to the washtubs already in place on the bench under the mulberry trees at the west end of the house. After the tubs were filled, we filled the black wash pots sittin;g on an incline directly in front of the back door. I'm sure the wash pots were positioned so that Mama could keep a watchful eye from the kitchen. The pump and the black pots were in the blazing summer sun. Between them a path of burning sand toughened the bare feet of the young carriers.

The wash pot was a large cast iron black pot with short legs. This was a very valuable container. Its primary use was to heat water for laundry. However, it was also used for making soap, rendering lard, frying fish and other tasks that were best done outdoors. A fire could be built under its round belly.

How wonderful are the predawn hours on the farm. The rooster is the first to summon the new day. A distant crowing lightens my sleep and I lie there expecting the rooster from the henhouse to answer. He doesn't disappoint me. Soon there is a chorus of neighboring roosters punctuated by the resident rooster. This was music to my ears. The long sultry night had become cool, almost too cool. I pull the sheet and blanket up under my chin even over my head and drink in the cool, damp morning air. I can hear Mama in the kitchen. Soon the smell of bacon and coffee drifts in. I can hear their quiet voices as she cooks and Daddy drinks his coffee. All is well with the world.