As a child I lived in church rectories, and to the best of my knowledge each came equipped with a washing machine. When we spent time at the cottage in Muskoka the washing machine was the old-fashioned type, and I watched my mother with fascination as she struggled with the laundry. If memory serves, the machine was gas-powered rather than electric, and mom had to run the sheets, towels and clothing through a mangle after rinsing. It was manual labour that she didn’t particularly enjoy, so we sometimes went to the town of Huntsville (about an hour’s drive) to use the services of a laundromat.
When I moved to Bequia in the 70s washing machines didn’t exist, and I learned from my fellow teachers that I would need to hire a laundry lady. This was something new to me, and, because I didn’t have a clue how to go about asking someone to wash my clothes, I simply hired the lady who took care of laundry for some of the other teachers from abroad. I was hesitant about this arrangement; it felt kind of weird having someone wash my clothes (especially underwear!) by hand, but I was obviously expected not to rock the boat by doing it myself.
The laundry lady’s last name rhymed with “bleach”, something I’m afraid she was overly fond of, and I privately called her “Mrs Bleach”. Armed with a wooden washboard which was referred to as a “jerk board”, a square of bluing, some laundry powder and the dreaded bleach, the good lady attacked my clothes energetically each week. Water had to be used sparingly, which probably explains why my clothes often came off the line stiff as all get-out! Rinsing laundry thoroughly was evidently a luxury. I despaired of bleach spots on my coloured clothes, and as for my underwear? My poor panties seemed to have a life expectancy of one month before the bleaching and jerk-boarding rendered them useless, and I began to furtively wash them myself before I was reduced to going without.
I became used to paying ladies to wash my laundry, even once I was married and had children, it was simply the way things were done back then. It wasn’t until we moved into our house at Belmont in the early 90s that I finally had the luxury of a washing machine, and I have to admit that I rejoiced. I’ve never bought a dryer – our laundry is always hung to dry – but the electric machine, to which fabric softener and a controlled amount of bleach can be added, has made a world of difference when it comes to the life expectancy of my clothes.
Especially my panties!
