Mating Socks and Other Strange Creatures

Laundry days bring sensory emotions and memories. It begins with "yuk!" Sorting dirty clothes is something drycleaners and launderers are paid to do and homemakers do because they love. I remember Mom refusing to let me help sort the dirty clothes until I was well into my teens. I guess she didn't want her "baby" performing that chore until it was necessary.

We had an old wringer style washer which meant it agitated the clothes, but each piece had to be fished out of the water and fed through two rollers to squeeze out excess water for the rinse. Our house had no hotwater heater until I was 14. We had a huge galvanized tub to heat water on low heat on two electric burners on the kitchen stove overnight. By morning, it was boiling. Half of it dipped with a large pan and poured into the washer and then cold water was added to replenish what was taken from the "boiler". The burners were turned to high so the water would reheat quickly for rinses. There was a smaller galvanized tub ready to be filled for rinsing clothing.

We washed the clothing in specific order with Dad's white shirts first then increasing order of darkness and soil with things like jeans and work clothing in dark colors being last. Mom used Fells Naptha Soap, Bluing or Rinso Blue, 20 Mule Team Borax, Bleach and Cornstarch. She had a plan, a program, a well tested mission. Her first load was in the washer being snapped back and forth by the agitator by the time Dad's footsteps could be heard going down our back steps on his way to catch his streetcar (another story). I don't remember, but I'm guessing those clothes were doing their laundry dance at about 5:00 AM.

Laundry produced aromas, scents, and smells. The dirty clothing smelled! The scent of the waiting soapy water was pleasing but also tickled the nose and caused sneezing. All that steam and mixed chemicals provided a scent that both beckoned and repelled. But the overall aroma that permeated the house was something that hinted at work in process; its essence changed from the first wash to the last rinse and later from the clean clothes brought in from the clothesline.

Once Mom was sure I was old enough to know not to get my fingers in the ringer, I was allowed to stand at the back side and guide the clothes from the ringer into the rinse water. Two reasons: (1) the back side of the wringer was less likely to catch fingers and (2) the water in the rinse tub was not as boiling hot as the early wash water. I liked guiding the flat boards of clothing out of the wringer into the rinse water where they filled with water and became recognizeable as shirts, blouses, skirts, slacks again. I liked using the wooden stick to move them in the rinse water. I eventually graduated to taking them out of the rinse water, putting them into the wringer to guide them into a basket to wait for their second rinse. I kept my fingers out of the wringer but I did get the stick through once.

It was back-breaking labor, but it was time spent with Mom doing something showing progress from step to step. It was a good feeling to see dirt and odor changed to clean and fresh. We took the heavey baskets of wet clothes to the back yard and the clothesline. This might happen in stages, possibly repeated rather than completed on a first try. We had a neighbor who burned garbage in the morning rather than in the evening like the rest of the neighborhood. It was neighborhood belief he had a mean streak and burned on Monday mornings to thwart all the laundry in progress up and down the street.

Hanging the clothes was a trial. Like everything, Mom had a routine. This routine was not variable. Sheets and towels were hung on the outer lines. This did have a twofold reason. They received the most breeze and were the most difficult to dry thoroughly. The second reason was that they served to hide the unmentionables that would be hung on the very center lines. The next lines were shirts and blouses, then slacks and skirts and dresses. Socks were mated while being hung by the toes wherever there was space to hang a pair (mind you not a single sock).

The ritual followed throughout the seasons. In the winter your fingers hurt and steamed but the clothes went out. Sometimes, they were starting to freeze before we were finished hanging them. Be that as it may, socks were still mated while wet and hung by the toes; they were curled like elf boots when they were brought in.

There the clothes stayed until dry and were usually gathered right before dinner. They were folded as they came off the line and the baskets that carried wet clothing out in the morning began to mount high with neatly folded clothing in the afternoon. They carried the sweet scent of laundry products, fresh air, sunshine, and seasonal garden, dry leaf, or snow. In the winter, they were frozen rather than dry. We folded what we could and brought the rest in like planks and rehung them across the livingroom and dining room to thaw and dry overnight. Dad had put hooks in the walls so lines could be strung in a zig-zag pattern because we did not have a finished basement; we had a dirt cellar.

During the process of hanging and taking in the clothes there was a phenomonon performed by Mom that to this day I cannot emulate. She could hold up to six clothespins in her mouth removing one at a time as needed. I would take a handful of clothespins and fill my mouth. In two seconds I would gag so hard tears would squirt from my eyes and I would spew clothespins far and wide in the grass. I cannot hold even one clothespin in my mouth without gagging. I wave my fabric softener sheet in tribute to Mom.

Bringing in the laundry had its challenges as well. It was taken from the lines in the reverse order it went on the lines. Unmentionables first. In summer temperatures the center was the most airless place to be but we were not allowed to take shortcuts (like throwing the underwear into a basket to fold in the house). Each piece was folded and placed correctly or else! In the winter trying to take shortcuts might mean a swat from Mom with a frozen piece of laundry she was holding. It didn't really hurt, but wasn't pleasant and we kids learned quickly there was a choice between doing it well or dodging the swat.

One sweltering summer day, I took down some of the sheets to allow more air to the center of the lines. Mom was embarrassed and angry. She happened to be holding a pair of Dad's undershorts with which she immediately started swatting me! While dodging the whipping shorts, I was also seeing the humor in what was happening. What started as chastisement ended in a slapstick clown act with no sheets to hide the circus. Mom suddenly realized what others might be witnessing and we ended in laughing so hard we couldn't breathe.

There were those not so funny times as well. Mom worked hard all her life. We were poor and even though many labor saving inventions were giving homemakers a break we couldn't afford them. Mom's lot was manual labor. We had just finished hanging the last piece for the day. A line snapped and two lines of clothing were suddenly lying on the ground. As I look back, the grass under our clotheslines was green and thick. I don't think the clothes were actually dirty. In Mom's eyes it was ruined and had to be rewashed. My heart still hurts when I remember her picking the clothespins out of the things lying in the grass with tears running down her cheeks. A new clothesline was strung, the newly rewashed clothes were hung. Life went on.

The dried and folded clothes were then either put away or prepared for ironing the next day. We had a pop bottle with a stopper shaped like the end of a sprinkling can for a garden. The stopper has small holes. We filled the bottle with water, added the stopper and then shook the bottle upside down over the clothes to be ironed. They were rolled tightly and put in a basket lined with a damp towel. The towel was wrapped around the rolled clothes and set aside to be ironed in the morning. In the summer, the bundle of clothes was put in the refrigerator to avoid mildew.

I learned to iron Dad's handkerchiefs first, graduated to sheets and pillowcases, then underwear (yes, EVERYTHIG was ironed), and eventually was taught to iron shirts and blouses. I liked (and still do like) ironing. What satisfaction to take from one basket, see wrinkles disappear and sharp creases appear, then hang or fold! Ironing again caused an aroma that permated the day. It had to be completed on Tuesday.

A down side to my fond memories of laundry -- socks with holes! In those days, the mated socks were removed from the lines and the pairs that showed wear were set aside to be darned. Mom was good at it. When she darned a sock carefully weaving special darning cotton thread across a hole, the sock was repaired and wearable. When I did it, my sisters and brother carefully stuffed those pairs out of sight in a drawer so they wouldn't accidentally wear them and come limping home with blisters the size of quarters! Mom often picked out my mess of darning and redid the sewing while I was at school. I was proud of trying though. I still have my darning egg but my family asks that I keep it as a memento and never use it!

I have all the modern conveniences for laundry. Deodorizing soaps and softeners, a machine for washing, rinsing, and spin drying and a machine for tossing the clothing in a revolving drum heated to dry are just three of them. No iron fabrics, softener sheets, dryer balls for fluffing. A rack on wheels to take the hung clothing with space on the bottom for a basket with folded items. End the laundry and wheel the rack to where it will all be put away. I am embarrassed to say I get tired on laundry day and my labor is nothing like that of my mother. Sometimes I hang sheets and towels outside just for the scent of fresh air on the linens.

Our socks don't curl like elf boots. They also don't match! I always lose one sock of a pair. I don't know where it goes. Ever tried to truly match tube socks? No heels make it impossible to know the shape of the sock. They have to be mated by similar stains or signs of wear. Dave's dress socks are equally problematic. Men's dress socks come in shades of brown, black and navy with an occasional ecru or beige in there. Someone decided men needed socks with minute checks, stripes, plaids in monotone. I compare, seek good lighting, study, and strain my eyes to match the socks. There ought to be a reward for achieving all socks mated correctly. Rather, we will be visiting with friends or strangers and I will glance down to discover Dave is wearing two black socks with decidedly different patterns! How come it shows at that particular time and not when I was matching them? My mother is shaking her head because when I can't find a mate to a sock, I toss the one in a basket. If no mate magically appears in the next three launderings, I pitch the loner! After all there are only so many sock puppets one can make!

I often wonder what God thinks about his pairings and matchings. Certainly He noticed Adam needed more than the other beings He created. God made Eve to be Adam's helpmeet or person to meet Adam's unfulfilled needs, mentally, emotionally, and physically. They were always intended to get their spiritual fulfillment from God. So, as the story would have it, they didn't live so very happily ever after. Eve wanted excitement and Adam lacked leadership skills where his beloved was concerned. They sinned, were banished, life became difficult. In my opinion, socks were invented not long after their boys were born!

Like socks that go missing in the washer and dryer, people seem to mismatch. Sampson was drawn to a woman nothing like himself or his people. She was an enemy of his God. Jacob wanted one woman and one woman only. Through his scheming and misplanning, he got her and her sister, and her handmaiden, and her sister's handmaiden, and so on! Abraham had his Sarah and both are honored for their fidelity to each other and their God -- but not without their manipulations of a promise made to them by God.

Does God look down embarrassed because in new light He discovers stripes and polkadots mated? Not the God of all creation! He looks down and says, "So you are mismatched! Let's see what we can do." He brings good out of everything He touches. He finds us when we go missing in the agitations of life. He lovingly smooths our curled edges. He removes the soil and odors we collect in our sinning and leaves us with a sweet aroma He loves to breathe in. He sits back and looks at His work and is satisfied with a labor well done. If you feel like you've been through the wringer, relax. God will keep rinsing, shaping, and smoothing until you are just as you should be. He is ever faithful.