Those who wish for “the good old days” must’ve never used a wringer washing machine.
One day was set aside for clothes washing. The machine was dragged from its corner and placed in the center of the room. The room my family used was probably an 8×8 and wasn’t really a room. It was a space off the hallway with a doorway to the bathroom on one side and to the kitchen on the other side. When the washer wasn’t being used, it sat in the corner.
Two large galvanized wash tubs were placed on straight backed chairs. The washer and both tubs were filled with water, and detergent was added to the washer. The machine was plugged in, and the action began.
First in were sheets and pillowcases because they were the least dirty of all that needed washing. The agitator worked mightily, thrashing and stirring until whoever was in charge decided enough was enough. Then the wringer did its work with sudsy water falling back into the washer and wet sheets falling into a tub of clean water, where they were swished around by hand before going through the wringer to the next tub for the final rinse. One more time swishing in clean water, one more time through the wringer, and then they were ready for the clothes line.
Next in were good clothes, as in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes; then regular clothes, then towels and undies, and, finally, the dirtiest of the dirty, which were jeans and work clothes. Sometimes the water would be changed if it got too dirty or too sudsy. That was a chore, too – rolling the washer to a sink or bathtub, using its attached hose to drain it, rinse it, and refill it.
Nothing about wash day was easy. If the wash water got cold, more hot water had to be added. I don’t remember if it was heated on the stove or hot water from the spigot was used. Wash day also had one big red flag danger even the youngest children knew: the wringer. If you got your fingers caught in the wringer, woe is you. It would keep rolling, squeezing, and pulling your hand in until you would be shouting for mercy.
The grandmother who we lived with for many years wasn’t able to do much since her shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, ankles, wrists, and fingers were frozen due to osteoarthritis. She was my Mammaw Edwards. Because Mammaw was so handicapped, a very large woman named Reesa came almost daily to help with me and the chores. I loved her, and she loved me. We called her Reesie. Reesie was always involved in wash day even though her main task was to watch me and keep me out of “The Way.”
The one particular wash day that was used as a warning, from the time it happened until the wringer washer was replaced by an automatic washer, occurred this way: My mama was using the wringer when her hand was pulled in along with the clothes. She began to scream. Reesie, who was in another room, thought something had happened to me. On her way to find me, Reesie got between Mama and the electrical outlet so Mama couldn’t reach the cord. Mama’s arm went through the wringer almost to the elbow before she could push Reesie out of “The Way,” unplug the machine, and release the rollers. Mama was bruised and squished, but nothing was broken.
The tale of warning took on a life of its own and was retold every wash day. I was always delighted none of it was actually my fault. The lesson I learned was that even adults need to be cautious and stay out of “The Way.”