This is a stream-of consciousness recollection inspired by remembering my maternal grandmother, Mama, last week on her 115 birthday.  That led me to thinking about her mother, who gave birth to her, the first of her nine children, when she was sixteen years old. We called her Ma-Ma.  And that led me to thinking about all my mother-figures.  And then, when I was basking in the sweet smell of a freshly-dried white load in my modern laundry room   .  .  .

.  .  .  I wandered into thinking about how my foremothers did laundry.

I think Ma-Ma did it out in the back yard by carrying water in buckets and building a fire under a pot like this.  I am sure, as the oldest daughter,  Mama participated in this weekly chore.

Don’t even think about what that must have been like in Oklahoma winters.

My first memory of Mother doing the wash was in a contraption like this:

(Do not put your fingers near the ringer!)

I have a fond memory of this machine’s being in storage when we moved into a tiny furnished house for a few months.  I walked with Mother to a washeteria a few blocks away where similar machines were lined up.  Each one had three galvanized tubs arranged around it for rinsing.  I thought that was great fun.  I doubt she did. (I was 6.  She was 26.) We hauled the wet things home, I think in my little wagon,  and hung them on a clothes line in the back yard to dry.

When I was raising my family, I always had an up-to-date washer and dryer to use, and in those days, there was a laundry chute from the bedroom-floor to the laundry room.  I pretty much kept those machines going every day. (Do not put your little sister down the laundry chute!)

Now young mothers belabor whether is is more environmentally favorable to use disposable diapers, which end up in the landfill, or cloth diapers, which require lots of water, detergent, and bleach to get them clean.  Think of Ma-Ma with no plastic panties to put on over her babies’ diapers.  No wonder potty-training took place at a very early age!

I honor my foremothers.

These days, I usually have one black load, one light-coloreds, one white each week.  I love to bury my face in that white load while it’s still warm from the dryer.  Life is good.

I lost my dear friend Cheryl last week.  We lived next door to each other for many years while we were raising our children.  We could always remember exactly when we met because I moved next door when my children had chickenpox and she was in the hospital having Michael.  He turned forty this year, so this was the fortieth anniversary of our friendship.  I took over a casserole when she came home from the hospital but stood way back as I handed it over so as not to spread the pox. She was the mother of three when we met, but she still looked much as she did in this picture, which, I’m guessing was published to announce her engagement.

She and I shared so many ups and downs, always doing anything we could for each other in hard times.  I remember when I had to move away.  I just fell into her arms sobbing.  She said, “You can do this.”  She was a petite, fragile looking little thing, but she was very strong and shared that strength with me many times.

I saw her for the last time last year when we met up at a favorite place for a happy dinner. I knew she was very sick, but she showed up looking great, as she always did.

Miss you, Sweetie.

August 23, 1899 – August 5, 1992

This is the way I first remember her, with that sweet smile on her face.

And here she is when she came to visit us and to meet Katherine, our Kate, whom I named for her.

Joannie was “in the neighborhood” today and took her some flowers.

We love you, Mama.

Planes, Boats and Automobiles!  You go, Girls!

It pretty much looks like this for months at a time:

I generally go out back and pick some raspberries first thing while the coffee is brewing.And bring in any really red tomatoes.

Then I breakfast on a handful of raspberries with some yogurt and  a peach from Green’s Bridge.  The rest of the raspberries go into the freezer.  On one rainy November day, they will become preserves.

Now, when the tomatoes are vine ripened, I really eat nothing else for the rest of the day.  Just one sandwich after another.

This is the one time of year I buy a really good loaf of plain white bread.  I slather on lots of mayo. No lettuce, no bacon.  Just a pile of sliced tomatoes.  Usually, I eat this standing over the kitchen sink to minimize cleanup.