Gram's Laundry

The following essay was published in our local newspaper, the Colorado Springs Gazette, on March 23rd, on the front page of the "Life" section. I hope you enjoy reading about my dear grandmother, Marion.

Gram’s Laundry

Gram died in 1971, when I was in my first year of college. I was one of the younger grandchildren and my memories of her were mostly of her frail later years when her rheumatic heart had taken its toll. Still, the memories were sweet of a grandma who played the piano, baked cookies, and shared a cup of “tea” in her special china teacups from England.

After she was gone, her nine children and a few of the older grandchildren compiled a book of their memories of Gram. It was delightful to read of a more vibrant woman, full of energy and spunk. Their stories are a valuable treasure and have helped me know and appreciate her all the more. However, there was one thing about her that came as quite a surprise and puzzlement to me. Nearly all of the children and grandchildren mentioned her obsession with the laundry. For her, hanging clothes on the line was more than a household necessity, it was a scientific project. She evaluated the direction and velocity of the wind, organized the clothing into categories, and made the chore into a most efficient venture. It quite frustrated her daughters, for on more than one occasion, Gram made them take everything off the line and re-hang it “properly”, as though things wouldn’t get dry otherwise. They couldn’t understand it, and neither did I. I wondered why she was so worried about something so insignificant, there were plenty of other things that needed attention. I wondered if there was some sort of unspoken competition among the ladies; if it brought a sense of pride or satisfaction to Gram to have a reputation for the best looking laundry in the neighborhood, “That Marion, she sure knows how to hang the laundry!”

Then when I became a mother with a house full of little children, I began to understand Gram and why the laundry wasn’t just a household necessity to her. But I also realized it wasn’t a science to her, either, it was her art form. With time and resources in short supply, her inner artist had sought a way of expression through the only venue available to her, her normal, every-day duties in the home. I remembered other times when Gram let her artist come through in so many ways; darning my socks with impeccably beautiful and fine hand stitching, having the house smell of fresh cookies when she knew we were coming, singing while she did the ironing.

I realized that, I, too, was an artist with little time or resources, but with a tremendous need to find expression. Gram had hit upon something good: a way of thinking that changes anything on a to-do list into a marvelous opportunity to be an artist. It works for anything from pulling weeds and changing diapers, to preparing food and cleaning floors. The mundane becomes art when one approaches it with the dedication, flair, and excitement of an artist. And anyone can be an artist with an attitude of excitement, commitment to the task, and desire to accomplish something wonderful in a unique and beautiful way. Being an artist in the simple, daily things we do is very rewarding and fulfilling. Burdens are easier to bear for the artist because she can find beauty and joy in everything, and her attitude makes everything she does filled with beauty and joy. There are many artists among us: the neighbor who spends the extra time mowing, edging, sweeping, and raking for a beautiful yard we all like to see; the family at the playground who make a point to gather up all the trash before they head home; the store clerk that greets the regular customers by name.

By the time I knew Gram, she had an automatic dryer, as I do today. Occasionally, though, when the breezes are just right, I hang the laundry on the clothes line. I do it to enjoy a lovely day and somehow connect with the Gram that I miss. I try to honor her and make my laundry a beautiful thing. I imagine her watching me and wonder if she is muttering under her breath, “You’re doing it all wrong!” But perhaps she isn’t thinking that at all; perhaps she is joyfully exclaiming, “What an artist!”