Posted tagged ‘Washing machine’

“Soup is cozy.”

October 24, 2017

Last night I just couldn’t fall asleep. I tried to watch television, but that didn’t work. On Netflix I saw the start of several movies but couldn’t get interested in any of them. I then watched most of my DVR’d programs and got the number winnowed to two, both Dirk Gently’s. To watch that program I need a different mood. At 3:00 I turned off the light and tried to sleep. At 3:30 I turned the light back on. Finally, at 4:30 or so I fell asleep. Television is definitely a wasteland late at night but not enough to lull me to sleep.

Today is dark and windy, but surprisingly warm. It will rain later tonight. We could get inches of rain. My mother would call it a deluge.

Unlike Mother Hubbard, my cupboard is full. Peapod came yesterday.

My coffee maker loses water all over the counter. My washing machine won’t spin. I had to put towels on the line in the cellar. They were heavy with water. I hand wrung them, but they were still soaked. The other clothes went into the dryer. I hate when stuff starts to fall apart. I have ordered another coffee pot and will call an appliance man with hopes the washer can be fixed. Both are essential.

We live in the toss it and buy another age. Stuff is not build to last anymore. It is often cheaper to replace than repair.

My mother always made pea soup after we’d had a bone- in ham for dinner. The soup was thick and green. It was my father’s favorite, but because I liked it too, my mother would save some in jars and freeze it for my next visit. I reciprocated and made chicken soup. I always brought my mother some. She loved my chicken soup.

My mother used to come down to visit often. We shopped, went out to dinner and sometimes out to lunch as well. At night we’d play Big Boggle, her favorite game. We played countless times. She used to fill her trunk with shopping bags. The joke was she’d only bring in a couple when my father was home. He always remarked about little she’d bought. When he went to work, she’d empty the rest of her trunk.

It has started to rain. I heard it dripping from the eaves onto the deck. The wind is  stronger, and the biggest branches on the oak trees are swaying. I was going out as I do have one errand, but now I’m staying home, cozy and dry.

“I am too young to be called wise and I am too old to be called young.”

January 16, 2017

Today is winter warm. The sun is shining and the sky is pale blue. In all respects it is a pretty day.

This morning I had a burst of energy. The laundry got put away, and the next load of laundry is leaning against the cellar door. I expect I’ll wash it later. I brought the vacuum up from the cellar. I washed a few cups and glasses. I even got dressed. It has already been quite a day.

Growing up, I never learned any household skills. My mother did everything. She even made our beds. When I was first on my own and the washing machine buzzed, I had no idea why. I took out the clothes, wrung them close to being dry and put them on the line. I had an apartment my junior and senior years in college. Almost everything I ate came from a can. Dinty Moore’s Beef Stew was a favorite. It had everything: meat, potatoes, and vegetables. I ate a lot of spaghetti with jarred sauce. I also ate several meals of hot dogs and hamburgers. They are still two of my favorites. When I graduated from college, I could wash clothes and understand the buzzer. I could sort of cook. I could also teach English.

If, when I was 11 or 12, I was asked what my life would be like when I was retired, I would have had trouble answering. Being old enough to retire was way beyond my ability to imagine. Even being in my 20’s seemed really far away., but I was sure of a few things. I’d travel the world. I’d write books about my travels. My life would be exotic. Auntie Mame and I would be kindred spirits.

Okay, how’d I do? I’ve traveled the world. Though there is still so much of it to see, I’ve done well. I’ve traveled on three continents. I have lived in Africa, an amazing adventure, an exotic adventure. I haven’t written a book, but I do write. That’s sort of a half-done. I never became an Auntie Mame. She was so flamboyant I could never pull off her style. I live for comfort. I suspect Auntie Mame would be horrified with my wardrobe.

Some things I’ve learned have amazed me. Cooking and baking are two of them. Doing needlepoint and crewel are two others. Never did I see any domesticity in my future. My 12- year-old self would laugh, heartily.

 

“The only thing that will make a souffle fall is if it knows you’re afraid of it.”

January 7, 2016

Today is warmer than it has been which is good as I have a few errands to do. The cats need dry food, and I need bread, life’s essentials for the cats and me. I did vacuum and dust a bit yesterday so I have a small sense of accomplishment.

I didn’t even know how to work the washing machine my freshman year in college. The bell went off once, and the machine wouldn’t work no matter what buttons I pushed. The idea of an uneven load never entered my head. I didn’t even know the load could be uneven, unbalanced. I ended up pulling out the clothes and wringing them by hand before putting them into the dryer. When I mentioned the bell to my mother, she explained about redistributing the clothes in the drum. I was thinking we should have had a laundry lesson before I left.

My junior year in college I had an apartment. My roommate and I had been classmates starting in the first grade and all the way through except for the year on the Cape. She had always worked to put herself through school. She was one of those waitresses who could heft full trays. Her right arm had more muscles than her left. She could cook anything, and I was amazed. I could cook things like eggs, hot dogs or hamburgers, but that was it. She even made meatloaf and gravy, onion gravy. I was more than happy to do the dishes if she cooked.

I was mostly inept when it came to household stuff. I never did laundry, never cooked and didn’t even have to make my bed. My mother did it all. That made apartment living an adventure. Learning to clean was easy. Learning to cook took a bit more time, but I got good at it.

Being in Africa was a test of sorts. I had to survive without machines or devices including an oven and a washing machine and dryer. My wringing skills came to bear on wash day, all done by hand. I ate mostly chicken with a sauce. The meal was cooked over a charcoal fire and the sauce was usually made from tomatoes and onions, the two most plentiful veggies. I did a little frying as well. I was spreading my culinary wings.

Nothing fazed me after Africa. I conquered the wash and kitchen duties and could cook just about anything. I was never to be afraid to try. That was the best part of it all. I had some failures, the bagels come to mind, but the successes were delicious, still are.

“I’ve buried a lot of my laundry in the back yard.”

September 1, 2015

It will be warm and humid today, no surprise there, but the morning is still cool. It has become a ritual of sorts for me to open the doors and windows in the morning then close them to the heat of the afternoon when I turn on the AC. It is nap time for all the animals. Fern sleeps in the sun streaming through the front door while Gracie and Maddie are comfortable on the couch.

The day is pretty quiet right now. The birds aren’t singing, the leaves aren’t blowing and none of the kids from down the street are outside playing or riding their bikes. Today is their last day of summer. School starts tomorrow. Tonight will be bath night and then early to bed.

The first load of laundry is done and needs to go into the dryer. I gave in finally.

When I was a kid, the washing machine was in the cellar right next to the deep sink. It was a white wringer, the same as everyone else’s washing machine. My mother did several loads a week of laundry. It was a process. The clothes were spun in the soapy water in the barrel-like part by the agitator and then my mother put the clothes through the wringer, sometimes twice, to get rid of the excess water. Finally the clothes went hung to dry on the outside lines no matter the season. I used to like to watch my mother wring the clothes. Our machine was electric so she just fed the clothes to the rollers. I had a déjà vu moment when I first made pasta. My mother and her washing machine jumped into my head when I put the dough through the rollers. It was the same process. You even had to dry the dough.

I have it easy and I still procrastinate.

“All will come out in the washing.”

June 26, 2012

Last night I woke up to thunder and lightning, and I was so glad I did. I’d have hated to miss that storm as I’ve been hoping for such a boomer with all its sight and sound effects. My room lit up several times. The animals didn’t even move; Fern and Gracie stayed asleep on my bed while I enjoyed the display. Today is damp and cloudy, leftovers from yesterday and last night’s rain. The morning is cool the way damp mornings always are, even in summer. On one hand I really like a cool day but on the other I don’t because a day like today removes any and all excuses about doing chores. I can’t say the heat is too much so I’m stuck doing what I’ve put off for a few days. The first wash, all the dog’s blankets and stuff, is already in the machine. The kitchen floor has been swept, and I used my foot to swab the kitchen tiles with a Lysol wet cloth. When the dog wash is done, I’ll bring down one of the storm doors then I’ll bring the other when my washing is ready for the dryer. I feel like I should be wearing a t-shirt which says I am crazy for cleaning, and I mean that in a couple of ways.

I put off doing laundry because I hate to fold it after it dries, and I hate hauling it up two flights of stairs. Usually I leave the clean laundry sitting in the dryer wrinkling away until I need to do another wash or I’m just about out of clean underwear. I guess I shouldn’t complain as I remember my mother doing a load of wash just about every day, and she had a wringer machine when I was a kid and no dryer. Our cellar back then had two huge, deep sinks at one end, and the washing machine water flowed into one of them. I remember watching my mother push clothes through the wringer then catch them on the other side. When I see a pasta machine being used, I’m reminded somehow of that wringer.

Well, the machine just beeped so I need to move the clothes to the dryer. Is a woman’s work never done?