Laundry Day in Funchal

Into every traveler's life some errands must fall. And by yesterday it was more than time to do laundry. 

We're lucky to be staying in a little apartment with drop-dead gorgeous views, a tiny balcony, and a small washing machine under the cabinet, where a dishwasher might be in the U.S. 

The machine's buttons were mysterious and there was no information in the apartment that might explain how to turn the thing on, so Tom looked up the owner's manual online. Even that didn't tell us what we needed to know. But he tinkered with the appliance until it came on ... and it stayed on for the next couple of hours. 

I wasn't sure if our clothes would ever be dry again, but I was pretty sure they would be clean. And in fact, they are now both. The drying rack fits over the balcony railing, and, with a little ingenuity, over two kitchen chairs, as well. So by this morning, we had clean, dry clothes. 

It was an adventurous laundry day, Madeira style. 

(Clothespins: a laundry day essential)

Laundry Day

"Perhaps the job most loathed by Victorian womanhood was doing the laundry," Ruth Goodman writes in How to be a Victorian, which I mentioned a few days ago. 

As I sort through my own darks and lights, I can't help but think about how differently my laundry day will proceed from that of the Victorian woman's. Hers would have started on Saturday, when the soaking began. 

More than 36 hours later she'd begin hauling and heating the water to eke out suds from the harsh soaps of the day, then stirring and agitating the clothes in a tub with a dolly stick (a plunger-like item) to remove the dirt. If she was lucky and had a wringer, she'd remove water from the clothes that way; otherwise, she'd wring them by hand. This would repeat through a couple of rinses, of course. In between she would have to carry large tubs of water in and out of what was most likely a cramped, dark kitchen. Only then could she hang the clothes up to dry. 

Laundry took up so much space and water-heating capabilities that the family would have a cold supper on laundry day, relying on leftovers from what was usually a larger meal on Sunday. 

Goodman says that her own historical laundry experiences lead her to see the automatic washing machine as "one of the great bulwarks of women's liberation, an invention that can sit alongside contraception and the vote in the direct impact it has had on changing women's lives."

The Red Load

Yesterday, while doing laundry, I realized that I had enough pink, purple, maroon, and crimson clothing to comprise a red load. 

As a kid, I learned to corral my reds into a separate washing machine load, and for many years — with three little people's laundry to do as well as my own — I often did. 

But it's been years since I washed that many clothes at one time, so I usually cheat. I tuck a red plaid shirt or cherry-colored tunic into a dark load, use cold water and hope for the best. 

I'm rejoicing now to see all these reds in one place because it means I've finally moved beyond my decidedly neutral (gray, navy, etc.) wardrobe into more colorful garb. My laundry style will just have to keep up with it.

Springing Ahead?

Today is our first full day of astronomical spring, though the chilly morning temps make it feel more like winter. We in the mid-Atlantic have been spoiled this year, with snowdrops blooming in January and daffodils in February. It's been a non-winter. 

Now that we have late light, too, I feel a bit like Punxsutawney Phil, dragged out of his burrow only to dip back in because the sun's too bright. These late-light evenings, as much as they thrill, can seem like too much too soon. 

There's a part of me that still craves the lamplit afternoon, the cozy cocooning feel you have in winter, a pot of soup bubbling on the stove, no outside chores calling my name to add to the inside chores that are always with me. 

In other words, winter gives me a pass of sorts. And now ... that pass is over. 

Ink Stains: Before and After

One hazard of being a writer is the frequent discovery of ink stains on my clothes. This happened the other day after a trip to the grocery store, where in the course of crossing items off my list (which has nothing to do with being a writer and everything to do with being a compulsive list-maker) I somehow smudged black ink on a white sweatshirt.

We'll leave aside for the moment why in the world I bought a white sweatshirt and move along to the stain remedy. 

Long ago, I acquired a chart which listed such items as ammonia, baking soda, lemon juice and glycerine in an arsenal of stain busters. Glycerine is key here, being one of the only substances I've found that can remove ball point ink from fabric. I worked with glycerine, and a mixture of glycerine, dish detergent and ammonia, off and on for an hour: applying, rubbing, rinsing, reapplying. But in time, and with effort, the ink stains went away. 

I'm wearing the white sweatshirt again. Is it my imagination or does it look even creamier and more pristine than it did before I defaced it? I think it does. 

(Imagine the stain potential here.)

Rainy Weekend

The weather in my corner of the world makes me think of a slightly altered cliche — you can't keep a good climate down. The D.C. area is rich in sunshine, low in cloud cover and, at least for the last month or so, short on rain. Which means that last weekend's wall-to-wall showers were quite welcome.

I made soup, culled old files, and washed and dried clothes to give away. The rain and cloud cover gave me permission to stay inside. It lent a coziness to time's passage, blurred its edges. 

A quick glance at the weather forecast tells me we're expecting clouds and rain for the next two days. Who knows what I might accomplish?! 

Filing Al Fresco

Yesterday was picture-perfect: clear skies, low humidity, a freshness in the air after Monday's rain. It was one of those days I didn't want to be inside. 

And yet I'd come back from the lake determined to make decluttering a larger priority and tackle those file boxes in the basement. What to do? Haul them up to the deck, of course.

My back isn't happy about it today, but that's what I did. They shared the glass-topped table with the parakeets, who also didn't want to be inside on such a glorious afternoon. 

Papers were tossed, order was imposed and Vitamin D was absorbed. Who could ask for more?

Laundry Time

On these warm days I make the deck my home. The morning is for brain work, the afternoon for weeding, watering and, as much as I like to put it off, sometimes for laundry. 

Yesterday I sat outside while a hot wind stirred up the scent of crisp, drying dresses and t-shirts — and also provided a little screen from the late-day sun. 

Is there a scent more redolent and comforting than that of laundry detergent? I remember my friend Elaine, who lived a few doors down from us on St. Ann Drive. (No, my mother did not name me after our street; they moved there when I was 3 and she had long since named me for her mother, Ann Veronica Donnelly.)

Elaine's mother, Mrs. Scully, had only an ancient wringer washer (the only one I've seen in use before or since) and therefore devoted a day to the scrubbing, rinsing, wringing and drying of clothes. I remember her in loose house dresses with stockings rolled down around her ankles. 

The Scully house was one of the few in the neighborhood to boast a basement, and you could enter it from the garage. It was always cool and smelled of Tide. Yesterday, I closed my eyes and imagined I was there. 

Floor Time

Some people clean house before the maid arrives. I have no maid, but I do, today, have carpet cleaners. For them I've not just vacuumed, I've lifted, unearthed and rearranged. 

Carpet cleaners, of course, must have access to the floor. And the problem around here is that many other things do, too. There are picture frames and shoes and boxes of files. There are radios and fans and music stands. There are computer cables and lamps that must be unplugged. There are filmy white curtains and floral dust ruffles that must be tucked up and away. Most of all, of course, are the books, which are not just on shelves but also in piles on the floor. 

The good part about all of this began even before the carpet cleaners arrived. That's all the space that opened up during the preparation. Now ... if only we didn't have to put everything back! 

(Copper posing on one of the carpets that is not being cleaned today.)

Brush Strokes

A bit of painting over the weekend has me thinking about brush strokes, about the rhythm and the touch of them, the way you angle the brush to feather the strokes. 

I paint as little as possible, so the arm is rusty, but, like riding a bicycle, it comes back quickly. 

In painting, as in life, you must be both tough and gentle. You must know how much pressure to apply and when. Push too hard and the paint splatters, too lightly and there's no coverage.

Painting is also comparable to life in this fact — that by the time you get the hang of it, it's time to stop. 

Filling the Fridge

It has come to my attention that today is Saturday, a day I usually get groceries into the house. It has also come to my attention that I have not completed said grocery expedition in several weeks. Oh, I've run out for powdered sugar and cold cuts. But I've been neglecting the tried-and-true, list-driven expedition.

I kind of dread the trip, if you want to know the truth. It seems too much like work, which I've sworn off these last 10 days. But we're running low on milk, eggs and salad —  things that don't freeze well, you may notice — and you can't live on chocolate cake and Christmas cookies forever.

So here I go, back into a routine. I'm sure it will be fine once I get in ... a little like the shock of cold water in a pool, which ultimately refreshes. And even if it isn't, the fridge will be full again.

Tissues

If I ever doubt I am my mother's daughter, I need look no further than my pockets ... or my purse ... or the sleeves of a cardigan. For in all of those places, I am sure to find ... tissues.

I was just downstairs washing a pair of Mom's pants that I have decided to give away. I will snap a photo of them before doing so, a new practice I've been told works wonders in the quest to declutter. But before putting them in the washer, I checked the pockets — and there, of course, I found a Kleenex.

Mom kept them everywhere. Her pocketbooks were full of them and so were her bedclothes. It was probably the problematic sinuses that have come to plague her children as well, and the lung condition she suffered certainly didn't help.

But to me the tissues are endearing — and I hope I never come to the end of them.

Contemplative Tasks

A walker in the suburbs spends a lot of time thinking. So does a writer in the suburbs (or the city, depending upon whether I'm working at home or at the office).

I think best, though, when I'm doing something else. And I was thinking the other day (see?!) about how certain tasks are perfect for contemplation.

This will come as no surprise to monks and nuns who pray ceaselessly whether they're hoeing a field or baking a fruitcake. They've long since realized how much physical labor lends itself to thought and prayer.

Walking, of course, is one of the most contemplative occupations, which is a large part of why I do it. Others include weeding, mowing, sweeping and ironing.

Each of these deserves its own post (and some have them), but I'm focusing today on what they have in common, on the pulling and the stretching, the pounding and the smoothing — on all the repetitive motions that exercise the muscles so the mind can roam free.

(Once freed, a mind can go anywhere.) 

Seeing Clean

I knew I'd gotten serious about cleaning when I found myself scrubbing the washing machine, wiping off the soap residue, concentrating on a few dark streets I found on the front of the machine that finally went away with enough time and elbow grease.

The immediate excuse was my brother Drew's visit, but it was more than that. It was as if a switch were triggered and the smudges I usually don't see were decked out in crazy neon colors, begging to be obliterated.

So on top of the usual routine — the dusting and vacuuming and scouring — there was using the vacuum attachment to siphon out crevices in the basement, squeegeeing the front and back doors, washing the parakeets' cage cover ... and much, much more.

It's all a matter of seeing. Usually, I absolve the clutter, move past what I know I can't remedy because there's only enough time for the basics in my life and cleaning isn't one of them.

But this weekend I allowed myself time to dust and vacuum and sweep and scour, granted myself permission to use more hours than usual for those purposes. It's always comforting to accomplish much with little mental effort, to complete tasks always looming.

And now, I harvest the result: an almost spartanly clean house. Key word "almost" ... of course.

What Lies Beneath

Every so often comes a cleaning chore that makes us bare our souls, that drives us into the hidden places where we've stuffed photographs and papers and maps, and makes us pull them out. Every so often a cleaning chore comes that makes us ashamed of ourselves.

For me, that one comes today, when the Stainless technicians come to shampoo the carpet.

I am, first of all, ashamed that the carpet is in such bad shape. Copper has grown more anxious as he's gotten older and has developed the habit of scratching rugs when he's upset. His bladder control ain't what it used to be either.

And then there's all the stuff I've been storing on the floor in the bedrooms. This is how I've absorbed the papers and photographs from Mom and Dad's house —by transferring them directly from underneath their beds to underneath mine.

I marvel at how much I can cram into corners and closets — and how easily it slips out of awareness when not in my direct line of vision. But today it's right there, difficult to ignore.

So Stainless Carpet Cleaners will come, and Stainless will clean and Stainless will leave. But the stuff will remain. And dealing with the stuff...  is up to me.

A Place for Everything

Sometimes on mornings at home, in what I know is an elaborate form of procrastination, I tidy up before I begin writing. It's part compulsion. I like to look up from the screen and see some order in the universe — even if the order is only that I moved the covered rocking chairs from in front of the deck door so they don't block the view.

This morning while putting papers in the recycling bin and tucking a cloth bag up on a shelf where I keep shopping bags ... I thought about the phrase "a place for everything and everything in its place."
I'm a big believer in this. It's how I keep from losing things (including my mind).

The problem with this method is that I avoid the place where much of the stuff I'm moving should actually go — and that is what we used to call the circular file, the wastebasket.

So much of my tidying is a futile attempt to stem the flow. Until I purge — really purge — my tidying up will only be of the most superficial order. But this morning, like so many others, a superficial order is all I need.

There's a place for me, too — and it's sitting on this couch, typing on these keys.

Clean House

Some days start slowly and quietly, sipping tea while writing a post. Others start with a  brisk walk, or an early getaway to the office to beat the crowds on Metro.

Most days don't start with three strangers scouring my bathroom.

But that's how the day has started. Little time for rumination. It's all about action now, and not forgetting what I was doing before I went to add an item to the master list for hundredth time.

Still, it's a wonderful thing, having other people clean your house. I could get used to it.

Touch-Up

In the last couple of weeks I've been scraping, sanding and painting the deck furniture. It's not fun, but it can take on a Zen-like rhythm after a while. Especially the painting. Brush in hand, heat building on a June morning, air buzzing with insect sounds, a lone frog in the background.

I wield the brush as lightly as possible in rubber-gloved hand. The first coat is thick, too thick. The second coat is semi-gloss — ah, much smoother — and shinier, too.

And it was the semi-gloss that I used yesterday to do the touch-ups. Which is, I have to say, my favorite part of the endeavor: inspecting, looking at the whole, spotting the little places that can be improved, and ... improving them.

Maybe it's satisfying because it's a chance so seldom afforded us in life — this ability to go back and tweak ever-so-slightly the choices we made — just enough to make a difference.

Puttering

Woke up this morning after more sleep than usual and immediately started puttering. I emptied the garbage. I watered the plants. I made Celia a pot of coffee.

Then I went outside. I moved the begonias. I caught an errant strand of climbing rose, looped a green wire around it and attached it to a sister branch.

I was about ready to sweep the deck when I realized this wasn't a Saturday but a weekday, and while I wasn't planning to go in early today because of after-work plans, I at least had to get there by 9!

So I ran upstairs and started getting ready, but not without a wistful backward glance at all the little chores that can be slowly checked off during a morning of puttering.

Needlework

The other day I sat in on a preview of a Supreme Court oral argument, a job perk as unique as the program it represents. I'm bound by confidentiality to say nothing of what I heard — but that's not what I want to write about anyway.

I want to write about needlework. I want to write about the woman who sat beside me for two hours, and as complex legal arguments flew across the room — a room designed to look exactly like the real Supreme Court, right down to the color of the drapes, the style of the clock and the pattern of the carpet — her fingers flew, too.

She was knitting a sweater of warm burgundy wool, cable stitch. And every time my eyes would glaze over with strategies and counter-strategies, I would glance down at her hands, the surety of every knit and perl. I watched the sweater as it grew. Work of the hands, not of the head.

It was precious time for the petitioner, taking his strategies out for a test drive just days before facing the black-robed justices themselves. But it was precious time for the knitter, too, for the sweater that advanced several rows that morning — and for the person who will be wearing it soon.