MY GRANDMOTHER’S RURAL SOUTH CAROLINA LAUNDRY ROOM, 1950 Norman Cain
My grandmother’s laundry room was not located in a finished, attractive basement. It had no shelves containing detergents, bleaches and fabric softeners that hovered above a modern washer or dryer. And when the clothes were being washed, you would not hear a humming associated with a washing machine Likewise, there was no humming coming from the dryer and there was no choice about the drying cycle. No hot. No warm. No delicate. My grandmother’s laundry room was located in the back of the family house—in between a well, smoke house, chicken coop and cotton field. Instead of a washing machine, there was a big black cast iron pot filled with hot water—drawn from the well— which was mounted upon burning chopped wood. There was no detergent in the water, but rather home-made brown lye soap. The clothes were stirred with a sturdy ax handle. There was no modern dryer but there was a natural dryer: the sun. It beamed down upon the clothes that hung absolutely dirt free from clotheslines. My grandmother did not have a modern laundry room, but her wash was always 100% clean.
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