Wash Day at Grandma's

Wash day at Grandma's was a unique and exciting day for me when I was a child. Grandma's farmhouse had no modern conveniences, like running water or electricity. This meant we had to either get our water from the cistern, well or spring.

Sometimes in winter the cast iron pump would freeze solid. We'd pour warm water into it and pray it would thaw out. This was a time consuming process and often made matters worse. We couldn't pour hot water into the pump to melt the ice because the meeting of hot and cold would have cracked the cast and the pump would have then been worthless.

If we couldn't thaw the pump, and if the creek and spring were frozen solid, we had only one alternative. We ventured into the yard with buckets, pails and dishpans, filled them with snow and carried them into the house.

On top of the old cookstove, stood a copper boiler. We'd empty our vessels into it and traipse back outside for more snow. Our tired legs and bodies would make trip after trip into the kitchen, to add the snow to that already in the copper boiler. It was then, long before I ever entered a classroom, that I learned it takes a lot of snow to make a small amount of water.

After the copper boiler was full of snow, Grandma would make us cocoa. This was the best part of wash day. She did this by placing a saucepan of milk on the stove until it steamed. In the meantime, she put a teaspoon of cocoa into our cups and added a teaspoon of sugar and about an inch of pure cream. After testing the milk with the tip of her little finger, to make certain it was just the right temperature, she would scald the cream/cocoa mixture. The cocoa was delicious and warmed us after our many treks into the cold, frosty yard.

The copper boiler stayed on the stove all night. In the morning, Grandma would add a handful of homemade soap and a scoop of borax to the water. Then, she would put in the white clothes for about a half-hour, stirring them occasionally with a large wooden ladle made especially for this purpose. It reminded me of a miniature canoe paddle.

Grandma would lift the clothes out of the copper boiler with the wash ladle and place them in a large, blue granite pot. When they had cooled sufficiently, she would wring them out by hand, rinse them out, rinse them in the washtub, wring them again, then put on her coat, boots and gloves and venture out into the bitter, winter weather. She clipped the clothes to the clothesline with long, wooden pegs. Within minutes, the clothes were frozen stiff.

When Grandma came back into the house, she would put the next load of clothes into the copper boiler, boil them, wring them and take them to the line. This procedure would continue for most of the day.

Grandma had two long clotheslines and I remember well ducking beneath frozen sheets and towels, making it a game, as children tend to do.

After the clothes had been on the line for two or three hours, Grandma would bring them into the house and hang them on lines in the summer kitchen. Here, they would thaw and begin to dry a little. Since the summer kitchen had no heat, the clothes never completely dried. Grandma left them there overnight. Early the next morning, she would set three flat irons on the cookstove to heat. One by one she would bring items of clothing in from the summer kitchen. Using the flat irons, she would iron them until they were completely dry, then hang them in the closet or fold them and put them away in drawers.

I will never forget the fresh, outdoor fragrance that filled Grandma's kitchen when she set those flat irons to the damp frost-dried garments.

In summer, wash day was somewhat different. The wash water was pumped and carried in pails to fill the copper boiler. After the water boiled, the women would fold towels and slip them around the hot handles before carrying it outside to pour the steaming water into the old, wooden washing machine. This washing machine was fascinating. Mother had an electric, wringer washer; Grandma had a manual, pumped by hand.

First Grandma would set her glass scrub board inside the washer. Any stained or extremely soiled clothes would be lathered with a bar of Sunlight soap and scrubbed thoroughly. I've seen her scrub socks, as many as forty pair, on that scrub board. Her fingers would be red and raw, almost to the point of bleeding. Then, she would add detergent or a hand full of homemade soap and close the lid that had a large and small gear on the top.

Often, it was up to me to pull the handle on that old machine. Back and forth - back and forth until I felt my arm would fall off. Just when I felt I couldn't pump that handle once more, Grandma would appear, a smile on her face. She'd unfasten the clamps on the lid, take out the clothes and crank the handle of the wringer.

I'd watch as the rollers flattened the clothes, sometimes spraying water from the pockets. Grandma fed the wringer with one hand while cranking with the other. On the other side of the wringer, the clothes would fall into a galvanized tub of ice-cold water. After the clothes were rinsed, Grandma would crank them through the wringer one last time and hang them on the line. The procedure then followed the exact pattern of a winter wash day, except Grandma took the clothes in from the line while still damp and ironed them right away.
Today, in summer, I still hang my clothes on the clothesline to dry. Of course, I have an automatic washer and dryer, but much prefer the fresh smell of laundry that has been dried outdoors. As I fold and hang the clothes that nowadays require little or no ironing, I drink in the fresh, outdoor fragrance and travel back to my childhood - back to wash day at Grandma's.