The August rain on the roof woke me this morning with its soothing rhythm. Knowing that more hot days are ahead, I was even more grateful for the wet coolness.
It is Wednesday and, for me, wash day. As I went about gathering up the laundry from each room and sorting them out into color piles I found Anna's striped shirt.
Ah, yes, Anna's day of pink striped top "matched" with the navy and aqua striped pants.... I had said nothing about it and even allowed her to go to the store in the outrageous outfit. I repeated to myself over and over that it was more important that she had made the effort to get herself dressed on her own and that SHE liked her outfit than what I thought of it. This kind of self-control on my part is a major victory for me.
Tut tut, I reflect, how many people do I know who probably wish they could weigh in on MY choice of dress each day? Let it go, Sarah, let it go.
And there are Truman's piles of big-boy underwear. Twice as many again as there "should" be... a reminder that potty training is another practice in patience. And, my, how many pairs of socks can one little boy go through? And where are the mates anyhow? He has obviously been taking off his shoes in the sandbox again, but not his stockings. I notice that if you go through his shirts day by day you can tell precisely what he ate for all three meals. But there is that little boy smell and those little boy sizes that bring me back to pure happiness.
Jon's clothing are a pile in and of themselves. Deeply soiled from tree cutting or digging about, or sanding wood or painting or changing oil or any other number of Jon's activities. His clothes are a testament of his work ethic: just get it done. Don't stop to blow your nose on a Kleenex when you have on a perfectly good old shirt for wiping. Don't stop to rinse your hands between each chore or worry about that big spill on your pant leg. The thing is to get the job done and done well. I must always check for screws and bolts, markers, pens, or money in his pockets. They are always full of curious things that I often label as "unidentifiable." But then, there are his Sunday clothes. They smell of his cologne. His whole pile testifies that "A man lives here." I smile that, God willing, his piles will be around for me to sort for another 60 years or so.
And then, of course, there are my clothes. Predictable, plain and work-a-day. Nothing in this pile any longer that is labled "dry clean only" or "hand wash." I found in one pocket a stash of tissues and remembered that the day I wore those pants I had been reading a tender account of George Washington at Valley Forge to Anna during Truman's nap time. As I read, teary-eyed through the sentences, Anna put her arm around me and snuggled close. "Even great men need God to help them, don't they, Mom?" "Yes, Anna, there are times in life when even the greatest and the smallest of us have no where else to turn." We sat comfortably in our quiet moment as we looked at the print of George Washington kneeling at Valley Forge that I recently hung on our living room wall in our little home at the far end of an Island in Puget Sound seemingly miles away from any sort of trouble.
I took the tissues out of the pocket and threw the jeans into the appropriate pile. Wednesday is wash day at my house.
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Sarah your writing is breathtaking. I felt as if I was standing in your home looking at each pile of laundry and thinking those same things. You are so amazing. Thank you for the invitation into your musings. I wish I could write as well as you do. Something that is on my to-do list!
ReplyDeleteBy the way. Truman's "other sock" is at my house as I am sure my "other socks" are at yours! I am thinking about having a "sock hamper" where ONLY SOCKS are allowed to go. Sort of like a "sock spa" That way I can get them all back!
Thanks again for your delightful musings.
I love you!
~shelly
Darling Sarah,
ReplyDeleteReading your musings about moments in mortality was the best few minutes of my day!
I love you and your family, and your laundry! You are a jewel in my life!
Tenderly,
Diane
Ah, Sarah. I loved reading this too. Several things come immediately to mind. The first is one of dad's old square-dance choruses: "Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain..." The other, re: Anna and her pink striped top paired with the navy and aqua striped pants. who was it that once offered this pearl of wisdom?
ReplyDeleteA person should wear what he wants to
And not just what other folks say.
A person should do what she likes to,
A person's a person that way.
Haha... I'm still glad (and proud of mom and dad; I know it wasn't always easy) that I was allowed to wear all those zany styles in high school. Lots of other kids I know weren't allowed that form of self-expression.
I realize people have been doing laundry all over the world for years, but your thoughtful entry here seems like something one might uncover in an old leather-bound notebook while excavating a pioneer cabin... in the Dakota Territories, perhaps? :)
You're a good woman, Sarah.
Love you,
Alex
I agree with all of the above. Beautifully written, vivid, sweet, thank you for sharing about your laundry day. I never remember to take out my kleenex and end up picking up little pieces all over the house :o)
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