On Laundry

My mom has a thing for laundry. It’s something of a holy sacrament to her. When I “moved out” I had never done a load of laundry before in my life. And I wasn’t a 17-year old college bound kid. I lived at home or with my grandmother for all 4 years of undergrad so at nearly 22 years old I got married and moved three hours away without the slightest inclination of how to keep myself in clean clothes.

And before you get the wrong idea, I wasn’t “doless” (a nice Appalachian phrase for someone who “don’t lift a hand at much,” I suppose that’s also Appalachian and not terribly helpful but you get what I’m saying, lazy). I wasn’t given a fair opportunity to learn how to do laundry, I was never taught. As the saying goes, knowledge is power- and mom was keeping that particular power for herself.

And I get it from both sides. When I asked my dad if he did his own laundry growing up, he said granny would never let him near it. Granny still washes her clothes to death and once told me that’s what attracted her to my Pap: “his clothes were always just so clean,” she said.  That’s all it took and she was head over heels.

Perhaps my mom didn’t have the patience to teach us the practice of laundry but I maintain that it was more about her affection for washing clothes. Each of my mom’s sisters shares this same attachment to laundering. The practices of letting things soak, stain removal, hot or warm water and the ever pressing question: when to use bleach are topics they discuss at length. When I was growing up mom would often lift the lid of our washing machine, which sat in the kitchen in our house, to watch the process in action before her very eyes.  

When my mamaw was raising 11 young’uns they had a Wringer washing machine (pictured below next to my papaw on the porch) but by the time the baby-my mama- came along they had built a bathroom where the washer sat while the dryer was housed in the kitchen. My mamaw enjoyed laundry too, she said that seeing all those white diapers hanging out on the clothesline made her happy. Mom said their water pressure was such that they rarely washed much besides under clothes and wash rags. They’d be lucky to get one load done in an evening by the time the washer filled up and didn’t have time to get it dried before papaw went to bed, and the dryer didn’t run when papaw slept.

As mom told me all of this it clicked with her at the same time it did with me: “Maybe that’s why we all love to do laundry now. It’s like a luxury.” So I don’t hold a grudge for my laundry inadequacies.

When I lived with my mamaw in college she would sometimes gather up a few of my things from the floor of my room while I was in class or working. Mostly it was jeans, which I later learned she never actually washed-she would wet the knees and put them in the dryer to make me think that she had washed them. Clever badger. Perhaps her love for laundry took a backseat to her belief that things were not dirty, especially jeans, if they were only worn once.

I called my brother while writing this to ask about his knowledge of laundry to see if at eighteen he was as clueless as my sister and I were when we left home. He is in high school and still at home and I asked him if mom was out of town and he absolutely had to could he do a load of laundry. He gave a confident “Yes!” which surprised me and I asked him to walk me through the process to which he replied, “I’d take whatever I need washed to granny or Wanda.” Problem solved. But I could relate, I would never have dared touch mom’s washing machine when I was at home without her guidance. When she and my dad moved into the home they are in now she only had space for a stackable washer/dryer and to add insult to injury the washer locked while washing, putting days of watching clothes soak and spin in the past.

I cannot say that I share in the enjoyment of washing clothes, although I am firm in the belief that anything can be a spiritual experience if you take joy in it. The being my clothesline, I delight in seeing my clothes drying on the line in the spring and summer months. I think of home and mamaw and mom and their love of it and I feel connected to some small part of their beloved practice of laundry.

Sidenote: my mom’s washers been broken for two weeks now so prayers are appreciated. 

A conversation with Granny pt. 1

A while back I got to sit down and record a conversation with my granny. I'm so lucky to still have her to tell her stories to me. There's quite a bit of transcript I'm still working through but this is one of my favorite parts. I've left in her dialect because it's authentically granny. 

Meg: What do you remember your daddy doing most?

Granny: Well he farmed. I guess he enjoyed it that's all he done. They worked hard. Daddy worked hard but Daddy used to be a drinker now he loved moonshine.

Meg: Did he make it?

Granny: Yeah. He just never did get caught but he made it. He sold it. And Mom sold whiskey till she said they was coming across, they carried it outta Boggs Creek. They'd have to go up there and get it and carry it out. And she said one time her and Estel was carrying a load out to sell for the next day you know and it was dark. And said they set down to rest and said Estel was always the type of person that never said any bad words they set down and he never had anything bad to say about anybody. She said they sat down on that log and he said "mom, don't you think there's another way that we could make a living besides this." And she said, "well Estel we'll try it." And she said she never sold another bit after that... 

But that's all they had to do, I mean they had to do something to even survive. And I know she said the ones that used to buy the whiskey from her, I think one of the men was ***** ******** and people like that but anyway said they come to buy some day or two after she said she wasn't selling no more and said he said "Well Pearlie I guess you think you're too damn good to sell whiskey." And she said no I'm not too good but I can make a living another way and she said that right there was the turning point, said she never did sell no more. But my daddy sure did drink it. She used to go up there at the barn and unscrew the cap on the whiskey and let it leak out so he wouldn't drink it. Cause he was the hatefulest man ever lived when he was drunk. God, I was scared to death of him. But then when he wasn't drinking he was a good person. That's just the way they lived. 

Mountain Mamaws

Mountain mamaws do a lot of things but one thing they won't do is dote on you. You've gotta have tough skin around mamaw. She is liable to tell you "you're gettin' kinda wide" or  "your hair looks like some of them people down at Bingo."


Mamaw doesn't know the meaning of (nor allow the use of) the word "bored" and her hands never idle between the cannin', crochetin', quiltin', picklin', plantin', and porch sweepin'. She has no time for foolishness and your book-readin' doesn't count as being busy. What busy means is your hands are a-movin'. At the very least you could be playin' puzzle but better still you'd be knittin a pot-holder or making that chocolate pie.


Her religious beliefs are more akin to old wives tales than anything she heard from some preacher while sittin in a hard-backed pew. It's simply bout what's practical. You know like the danger of canning kraut during your time of the month. That's something you can live by, you have to can that shit every year. And she is washed in the blood but Jesus ain't gonna dig the potatoes or string beans so she stays home on Sundays to do what Jesus won't.


Mountain Mamaws have gotten the short end of the stick from the word go. They are the loyal wives of drunk husbands who have spent their marriage washing coal dust out with the Wringer washing machine on the front porch. She don't have time to think about arthritis or whether her knobby, gnarled fingers are afflicted with it. Mamaw doesn't make the money but she sure as hell hid it when it came in the door else it would've been squandered, drank, gambled and pissed away by Papaw.


Mamaw is a martyr. It's all she knows and she's earned it. She's raised eleven children and a husband who was still a boy when they drove to the preacher's house in Coeburn and he called them "man and wife."


And when the black lung settlement finally comes, she'll move out of the holler and into town. She'll quit keepin' a garden (save for a few cucumbers) because for the first time in her life she don't have to. But don't for one second think she doesn't expect you to raise one.


You know Mamaw will slice you up one of them cucumbers anytime you ask and she'll run you outta the house stokin' up the wood stove in April to make sure ain't nobody never cold. But Mamaw is still a hard woman. The words "I love you" don't come naturally to her. She shows her love through her works.


There aren't many mountain mamaws left. But they live on in our mamas and the way they struggle to show affection or know when to take a rest. Being raised by a mountain mamaw leaves you with  grit and gumption but what it won't leave you with is a tender heart.








These are broad descriptions of several different mamaws I've known. Mostly of Beulah and Marie but also of Shelby, Peggy, Pearlie, Gracie, Georgie, Sally, Eunice, Minnie Sue and countless others.