Hard work, my grandmother remarked to me, is it's own reward.
She was feeding sheets through the old wringer washer machine at the kitchen sink. She considered the machine somewhat of an extravagance but had made her peace with it although she was still a bit suspicious as she was of all labor saving devices. She liked to remind me of the days when she and my great grandmother scrubbed clothes with rocks down at the creek. I had recently figured out that we didn't have a creek but all that earned me was a glare and a warning not to sass her. It's the principle of the thing, she told me briskly. We filled her wicker basket with the wet clothes, filled her apron pockets with clothespins, and headed outside.
She has overseen the construction of the clothesline herself several summers ago - six lines were strung from the woodshed to the house at the exact height of her upraised hands. She stuck several of the old fashioned wooded clothespins in her mouth and began to hang the wet sheets, humming an old hymn as she worked. It was a glorious wash day - warm and clear with a strong wind that whipped the sheets back and forth on the line - they cracked and rose to meet the wind, one after another after another, like great white birds lifting off in flight. Nana stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, pocketed the remaining clothespins and the lifted the basket to her hip. The factory whistle blew and she glanced at her watch approvingly.
That night I crawled into bed with sheets smelling of the outside - crisp and clean and cool. I fell asleep to the sounds of the curtains blowing softly away from the open window, the tide slapping against the breakwater, faint music from John Sullivan's boat, and a Red Sox baseball game playing on Nana's little battery powered radio. She was a die hard Boston fan and would listen until the end and her morning mood would be influenced by the outcome of the game. I crossed my fingers for a win. Soon I could hear the click clack of her knitting needles and knew that she was in the leather rocker by the side window with a small glass of sherry, knitting and listening to the radio, her small feet propped up a needlework footstool my great grandmother had made and glancing up at every car that came around the curve. It was all familiar and comforting and a good way to fall asleep.
