The Romance of Hanging Laundry


Victorian Laundry

Is there anything nicer than laundry freshly dried on the line?  There is a romantic feel to seeing white sheets blowing  in the wind, the smell of ‘country’ dried linens.  Yet in all reality, there is nothing romantic about drying laundry on the line.  It takes much more time, and at times, can be annoying when the weather doesn’t  cooperate.  It is far from the bucolic scene one imagines.  One tends to think of Victorian maids in flowing, white dresses gathering the laundry, or walking through the sweetly scented linens. Or maybe something out of Pride & Prejudice with the mid 1800’s empire dresses.  Add in a nosegay and you have the quintessential image.

I love to hang laundry.  To me there is nothing better than falling into bed at night with fresh air-dried sheets.  I love the rough texture of a towel from being dried in the sun and the wind.  Plus there is the added bonus of not using the dryer and using all the electricity.  That in itself is a major plus.

There are other things that one associates with the term ‘romantic.’ Picking berries is one such thing.  Though after spending the last few summers getting terribly scratched, romantic is the farthest thing from my mind.  Maybe if one were picking wild strawberries, but raspberries, blackberries, and anything else with thorns is not romantic.  Even though I know all of this, I still conjure up images of women in long, flowing dresses with their tin pails brimming with luscious, red berries, sun ripened and sweet.  Girls and women swinging their pails as they sing and leisurely pick plump morsels  of goodness.

Again, this brings to mind something out of a Jane Austen novel.  I can picture Emma Woodhouse, Elizabeth and Jane Bennett, and the Muskgrove sisters.  Maybe they have played up the pastoral and romantic style so one automatically thinks something like this when these tasks are undertaken.  Whatever the reason, none of these things are very romantic. It’s just a form of work, and work is rarely glamorous.

Signing off


Shower Fog


She stood in the square metal shower, the thick steam swirling around her.  She leaned her forehead against the wall and looked down at her feet, far, far away in a thick fog.  Her feet and the floor of the shower were hidden in the misty steam.  Like when you have stepped outside on a foggy day where you couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of yourself.

The hot water sluiced down her skin.  A burning sensation that was somewhat painful on her cold skin. By the time the water had reached her feet it was cold.  Chilled to the bone would have been the words her mother would have described it as.  She felt that cold.  As if her bones were made of freezing cold steel.  Her muscles and skin attached in cold hunks of meat.  Her blood felt congealed and thick, and her movements were slow.

She let her arms hang as the water continued to pound her back.  Suddenly the heat started to go deeper and her body broke out in goose-flesh.  She shivered and spun around so that the water heated the front of her body.  It felt so good. She felt the warmth awaken her mind so that she wasn’t so fuzzy.  She felt herself start to wake up.

By the time she had stepped out of the shower onto the fluffy bath mat, she was heated to the core.  She felt like an ooey gooey brownie hot from the oven.  Like warm caramel.  Ready to puddle on the floor.

Okay, this is just a bit of nothing that I started thinking about as I was trying to warm up in a shower after freezing myself trying to get plants covered and protected from a freeze tonight.  Sometimes you can be out working and you know you are cold, then all of a sudden the cold sinks deep in and you feel it everywhere and there is no way you will warm up unless you take a hot bath or shower.

For the record, I feel kind of ooey gooey right now.  Now if only I could crawl into a down comforter and snuggly up with a cup of tea.

Signing off