Memories

Sharing on his blog about how different cultures dry their clean clothes, Andrew reminded me of helping my beloved maternal Grandma at the clothesline. It’s neat that Andrew and I shared similar childhood chores despite living on different continents.

Now I can almost envision Grandma’s old fashioned washer. It had a ringer, two rollers squeezing water from garments one at a time versus our modern spin cycle. I don’t recall if this was all electric or hand cranked.

An Older Model, for Sure;
Thanks go to the stock photographer

Strayer’s comment reminded me of Grandpa’s opinion of cut flowers. While I don’t begrudge folks who regularly enjoy flower bouquets, seeing blooms thrive on their living stems is my personal preference. Obviously, I make exceptions. ~sheepish grin~ This brings a very specific story to mind.

One summer, a neighbor girl insisted on harvesting some of Grandpa’s flowers. Her boorish nature weakened my timid protests. My grandfather emerged from the house spouting righteous indignation.

I burst into tears. What’s her name ran home.

After her shamed retreat my Grandpa expressed sorrow. He never blamed me but knew favoring his granddaughter could, as we would term it today, exacerbate a toxic relationship. My love for him grew even stronger that distant day.

How do you launder your clothes? Can you imagine trekking to a river with a washboard and clothes basket like so many hardworking souls (past and present) around the world?

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