Recently, I wrote a poem that included a section about my dream of living in a small garret in Paris. There I would write intricate, imagistic poetry and an angst-filled novel or two. Never mind that I’ve never written a novel. I would be so inspired by a failed love affair with a handsome cad of a Parisian man that the words would flow from my fingers as the tears fell from my eyes.
These endeavors would fill my days. After sunset, I would dress for the evening and join the literati in a small, noisy bistro or at the salon of a patron the arts.
Today, a cold Sunday morning in Kansas, my husband I are wrestling with a frozen washing machine so I can do laundry that has been neglected during our long cold spell. I need to write a poem, as I’ve joined a Facebook group that asks each person in the group to write a poem a day and post the title in the Facebook thread. Today, I took the easy way out and wrote a poem called “Laundry.” I like writing about laundry actually. I like the colors and the fabrics that I touch when I sort, wash, and put clothes in the dryer. I used to hang the clothes out on the line, as my mother did until she got a dryer herself. However, we live close to an industrial area and the odors of industry penetrate the clothes. When my mother hung clothes out, they always smelled fresh and clean.
Back to my Paris garret. If I lived in that garret, I suppose I would send my laundry out or hire a woman to come in and do it. My first mother-in-law hired a woman to do the laundry, the ironing, and all the other housework that was tedious and time-consuming. The woman was black and wore a white uniform. Having grown up in a truck driver’s household, one in which my mother did all that tedious work, this was my first, and only experience, with a maid. My husband, our kids, and I slept in a nice room in the finished basement when we visited his parents. That’s where the black woman did the laundry and the ironing. I would talk to her when I was down there with the kids or getting clothes to take back upstairs. The truth is, I felt more comfortable talking to her than I did to my in-laws. They weren’t unfriendly or rude, but I felt out of place in their huge, ranch-style house.
How could I justify paying another woman to do my laundry while I wrote all day? I suppose I would think that I would be helping her support her family, but it would still feel unnatural. For today, laundry duties are mine and my husband just told me both the washer and dryer are finished. So, I give up writing for another day to deal with the mundane tasks of keeping a household running.
poetofacertainage 