A
number of memories from my childhood begin with helping my mother
hang clothes outdoors. She was the comptroller of a publishing
company (and later, its personnel manager) and here she was, before
starting out for work, at the clothesline.
With this charming
book, I can recall the fresh smells of the laundry, cold fingers
on a line that sometimes froze and billowing linens. Those of
us to whom dryers were a new invention remember folding ourselves
within those flapping sheets, while playing games with our friends.
I've cheerfully succumbed
to the dryer as a main source for drying, except for a old wooden
drying rack for items I wouldn't want to submit to that twirling
machine: rugs, linens, lingerie and my favorite sweaters. Don't
get me wrong, if I had the backyard space there would be a line
because the smell of linens dried outside is like no other. However,
those of us who experienced this kind of housekeeping also remember
sheets that were completely wrinkled if the fabric was all-cotton
or linen. Many hours of ironing followed if that was a priority.
In my family, ironing was next-to-God in elevation; how many of
us now iron underwear?
The book also invoked
those times when, living in an apartment in New York City, I put
clothes on a line that moved by a pulley system, high above the
sidewalk, the motion of the pulley creating a reassuring squeak.
A painting by Alice Neel called Fire Escape in the book
illustrates that apartment building laundryscape.
I must say we may treat
our clothes with a little less violence nowadys due to the washing
machines that supply the muscle. Some washday advice quoted in
The Clothesline from a mother to her daughter Bessie reads:
Make a lather of
good soap with very hot water. And let it cool until it is lukewarm.
Then let the blankets and coverlets soak in it for a while.
Then take a new clean hoe for a pounder. Pound well and pound
again in another suds.
A few years ago I went to a Connecticut estate sale that had for
sale a number of old bedlinens made from silk and lace as well
as pure linen. It was a bidding situation and I prevailed. Now
they sit in my linen closet, pampered and loved. Whenever I encounter
vintage linens in shops, I recongratulate myself on that special
trove. The Clothesline is wonderfully illustrated with
many of the illustrations being of vintage linens.
There are many helpful
recipes and tips in The Clothesline for handling the Monday
washday task that I'll employ now:
hand-washed lace
and silk will have extra luster if you use half milk and half
water for the final rinse and
store fragile
fabrics rolled up, not folded.
A quote from a 1927
book reveals a mix of ground cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, mace and
caraway seeds with powerdered orrisroot used to repel moths. Or
how about a mix of lavender, southernwood (also thought at one
time to ward off infection), rosemary, black pepper and cloves
for that same use. There's a recipe for making lavender ironing
water that's worth the effort. Clothesline art is a section of
the book as well as clothespin toys. A suggestion for making your
own laundry and clothespin bags by using Sunbrella™ fabric
as well as sources listed at the back of The Clothesline
will aid the laundry enthusiast.
It's never too late
to learn these tricks in spite of my senior woman status. The
Clothesline take a sentimental look at a part of a culture
that, at least in the US, may be fast disappearing.
What ever happened
to Rinso? Did anyone else have a mangle in their basement for
ironing?
