After tragedy, laundry...

"We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry.”

~E.B. White

I do enjoy clean laundry. I enjoy smelling it, whether on myself or on other people, wearing it, seeing it whipping in the wind or even soaking in the rain. I even enjoy folding it and putting it away if it's fresh from the dryer, toasty and effluvious. There are few things that make me as feel prepared and organized as having freshly laundered clothes, sheets, rugs and curtains gracing my abode.

This may hearken back to the days of my youth. Then, I didn't care much for laundry one way or the other. I was like most children--yes, even like my own--who considered the term "put your clothes away" to mean "shove them under the bed or throw them on the closet floor." I also equated the term "clean your room" with "pull out all of those clean clothes from under your bed and on your closet floor and throw them in the laundry hamper."

We had a hamper back then. It was a kind of plasticky wicker, golden in color, with a solid hinged top. It sat at the end of the hallway and the dirty (or, in my case, clean) clothes disappeared from it and reappeared in my closet or drawers. Now that I think about it, I don't believe I ever really had to put my own clothes away. I just took off the clean outfit I didn't want to wear and put it in the hamper. Does anyone have hampers anymore?

What I did have to do, however, was take the clothes out of the dryer. The best way to get out of this, of course, was to pop open the dryer door, feel the clothes, and make an assessment. Not dry yet. Whether they were dry or not, I could garner a few more moments of freedom if I snapped the door shut and restarted the dryer.

This worked okay for the clothesline, too. It was my job to haul the big plastic laundry basket out to the back yard and retrieve the clothes from the line. After more than a time or two of claiming they weren't dry yet, I eventually had to pay the piper. If it was an especially warm and breezy day, I couldn't even get away with one round of procrastination.

There was an art to removing the clothes from the line. Foremost was the placement of the clothesline pole, a long aluminum rod with a kind of v-shaped attachment on one end which doubled quite well as a lion-taming rod, sword, lightsaber or javelin. If the clothesline rod weren't strategically positioned, clothes would--GASP!--touch the ground, and then the whole thing was a mess. The best thing to do was begin with the sheets, then other long stuff like crispy, crackly, stiff towels and cardboard jeans. After those were snapped and wrangled into submission, it was time for shirts, which hung upside down so as to avoid pointy shoulders, and then washcloths and underwear. While I never claimed to enjoy this activity, I still have fond memories of it and recall being very precise about how I organized the clothes int he baskets.

Clotheslines took a hiatus from my life until about six years ago when we were living in a small cabin with very minimal electricity. For many months, "doing laundry" meant packing fifteen million baskets of dirty things and toting them up a gravel footpath to the car which would take us to the local dirty laundromat. This was a total and complete conflict. The joy of clean clothes meets the dread of the filthy place. What on earth was in those washing machines before my load? And who had folded their clothes on this table before I? Still, baskets of fluffy, fresh wash was the payoff, and even when I was largely pregnant, I enjoyed getting the clothes clean. Joy of joys, I can still remember the day my dear husband lugged our old washing machine from our city house to our country cabin, rigged it up on the front porch, and made me one happy woman. A top-notch clothesline was constructed which stretched from my porch to a distant tree, between two pulleys. Some strong connection to my ancestors surfaced when I laundered my clothes then; with my hillbilly washin' setup, I'd step from my cabin onto the porch and pull those wet clothes from the washer. With each snap of a clothespin, I felt a sense of purpose and accomplishment much different than my writing, childrearing, research and volunteer work gave me. It forced me, too, to slow way, way down, to bring my daily routine to a crawl. And because it was my only means of doing laundry aside from the last-resort laundromat, that slow-down period was completely necessary.

Now, some people claim to love the smell of line-dried laundry. I'll confess. I don't like it. While I'm truly a nature-girl through-and-through, give me a Downy-fluffed, machine-dried towel over a stiff-as-a-board, wet-dog smelling line-dried one any day. I guess I'll never make it as a homesteading purist.

Who knew that something so inocuous as laundry would come so close to being tragic?

When we built our house several years ago, one of the features I lobbied very hard to acquire was a second-floor laundry room, and a nice one at that. I had to do a lot of fast-talking to convince my husband that it would be safe and very, very handy. For nights, he researched dryer ducts and washer pans before he was assured. I've rarely been unhappy with the choice. It's very definitely convenient to pull the clothes from the dryer and whisk them right to their destinations. If I have a terribly large pile, baskets full of clean laundry travel from the laundry to my bedroom where my queen-sized bed is transformed into a folding center. I turn up the tunes while my tee-shirts tumble-dry, putzing around the bedroom doing odd jobs. By the end of the day, the laundry is done and the bedroom's in order. Quite productive, indeed.

So, I had a new second-floor laundry with an efficient flourescent light and some handy shelves, but because we'd decided on hickory doors and custom kitchen cabinets, there really was no appliance budget. We took some of the little cash we had and bought a very old, very used washer and dryer pair from a very old, very used furniture store. The clothes have never felt clean to me, and I don't think it's just because it was someone else's washing machine. For one thing, the hot water feature stopped working about six months ago, and the fabric softener dispenser had a very crafty way of tossing all of the liquid around the top of the machine, completely avoiding the clothes. On top of all of that, the clothes never smelled clean, no matter what kind of detergent or fabric softener I would use.

But it wasn't the washing machine that caused the real problem. It was actually the dryer that conspired against us.

My husband and I were minding our own business, sitting in our bedroom having a heated discussion about global warming, when the fire alarms started to sound. I didn't jump up, I'm ashamed to say. But, in my defense, we have the kind of fire alarms that go off when the toast is too brown, or when the shower's too hot, or when the summer humidity is too high, or when a housefly has a fever. I figured that one of the kids was burning popcorn, so I ignored it, continuing my side of the argument. After several minutes, the alarms were still sounding, so I decided to see what those crazy kids were doing.

Once in the hallway, it became clear that this wasn't your average popcorn smoke. The hall was filled with a thick, plastic-smelling grayness that sent me toward the kitchen, assuming that it was something left in the microwave too long. Fortunately for us, we had left the laundry room door open. Had it been closed, I'd likely have continued past it and headed down to the first floor. If I had, we might have lost our home. What I saw, out of the corner of my eye, was a pile of flaming clothes flickering on the floor in front of the dryer. I strolled as calmly as I could back into the bedroom and stated, "Um. We actually have, um, a fire..."

Bo leapt from his spot and raced to the laundry room where he quickly called everyone to action. Ironically, a decorated ash bucket that my mother-in-law had filled with pretty girly things and had given the girls for Christmas, was put to use as an anti-fire weapon. I dashed back and forth between the laundry room and the bathtub, filling pails and soaking towels to put out the ever-increasing fire. One of us insisted that Bard gather the kids and get them outside. Every minute that passed had us wondering how long it would be before we'd have to join our kids outside, too and watch helplessly as our house burned to the ground.

Thank God, Bo was able to extinguish the fire and disconnect the gas dryer, which we had determined was actually burning inside, at the motor. With the help of Houdin, he hauled the dryer out to the front yard and we proceeded to fill baskets with smoldering laundry, dumping it into the bathtub and the front yard.

Obviously, at the moment when I was able to breathe a sigh of relief and praise God for our safety, I wasn't thinking about the fact that I no longer had a dryer. I was just trying to absorb the shock of having a fire in my house. But, before long, five kids, five dogs, two adults, a cat and a live-in father made me quite aware of the fact that we'd need to replace that dryer.

Money's tight. At this point, a trip to the laundromat was more affordable than a brand new dryer, even at sixty bucks a pop. Not enjoyable, just more affordable. It was clear, though, after one massive laundry trip, that this couldn't last.

Yesterday, I arrived home from work to a wonderful early birthday gift. My dear husband had shopped for and purchased not only a brand new dryer, but a fabulous, awesome, amazing new washing machine! I am now the proud owner of a Whirlpool Cabrio washer and a Duet dryer, two of the top-consumer-rated machines. Two of the BIGGEST machines on the market!

So when I got home from the greenhouse today, I started washing everything I could get my hands on--blankets, pillowcases, socks, slippers, stuffed animals, small children, large dogs, annoying relatives--and entertaining myself by watching the load swish and swash (the machine has a clear top), admiring the bright lights and colorful knobs (Sweetheart and I even turned off the lights so we could pretend we were in a spaceship), and reading the owner's manual to learn about all the mad skills my new machines have.

I'll bet my mother would laugh if she could see my washing machine, if she knew that I actually have to read a manual to know how to use it. She'd probably be a bit baffled that I throw all of the clothes in the dryer and the dryer actually knows when the clothes are dry. I'll bet she could never imagine hanging her clothes on the line and having a little timer tell her how long it will be until they were ready to be put away, or having a moisture sensor check them for doneness.

And even though I will continue to love my fluffy, fresh-from-the-dryer towels, I'm still lobbying for a clothesline.