The following is a memory of mine that will eventually find its way into a book about my family.

The fragrance of clean sheets fresh from the sun and wind is the best smell in the world. It floats back to me from my childhood when life was less convenient but rich with experience. Not that I'd trade my automatic washer and dryer to relive it, but I know I had something special my kids missed.

Laundry day used to be an event. It was a DAY! As the oldest, I was in charge of helping mother. We had to start early in the morning if we had a prayer of getting all the clothes dry by the end of the day.

First we cleaned out the twin concrete tubs to be used for rinse water. Then hauled over the washer and began filling it with a hose attached to the faucet over the tubs. If no one took a bath that morning, there might be enough hot water but just in case, we put the tea kettle on to use as a back-up.

The clothes were dumped on the floor from the dirty-clothes bag to be sorted by color, amount of dirt, etc.

Since the water was used over and over, you had to start with the white sheets and undershirts and work your way through dress shirts, then the towels, light colored dresses, and on to the cords, ending with work pants and socks.

Each load would chug away in the washer, swish, swish, swish for about twenty minutes. Then we'd take turns cranking the wringer while the hot clean clothes were squeezed through into the first rinse tub.

Second load into the washer, then sheets and whites into second rinse of cold water with bluing in it to keep things white. Turning the wringer around again, we'd manhandle the sheets to get them into the wicker clothes basket and I'd take them out to hang on the line if the weather was good. The trick was to get the sheets up on the line without dragging them on the grass.

It was a lot of work, but the bonus of laundry day was the chance it gave me to talk with mother as we sorted, loaded, and rinsed. It wasn't important talk—but a taste of "woman stuff" at an early age.

One load at a time swishing and chugging in the old washer, hot water added as needed to hold the temperature. Then through the rinse and into the basket. If you were lucky, and it was a windy day, the sheets and shirts would be dry by the time the pants were ready to hang. Daddy's shirts required one more step before they went out to dry. The collar and cuffs had to be starched. That meant mixing dry starch powder with cold water, then heating it until it came to a boil and cooked until clear—hopefully without any lumps—but I recall we usually had to put the starch through a sieve.

On damp days—and there were a lot of those in the Northwest—we'd drag everything down to the lines in the basement with the pants and socks likely ending up on the wooden rack near the heat register in the front room. On those days, the whole house smelled like wash.

The dry clothes were folded and stacked. Those that needed ironing were taken down and rolled while still a bit damp. The trick was to get around to doing the ironing before the damp clothes sat long enough to mildew.

When I was too young to use the iron myself, and the younger children were in bed, I'd read out loud while mother ironed. We read George Bernard Shaw and Mark Twain. One special night we both dissolved in tears laughing over something in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Ironing in front of the TV just isn't the same.

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