it will all come out in the wash

I almost bought an old double washtub from the 1920's at the junk store this morning.  It was about waist high, sitting on its castors, and the word "IDEAL" was stamped into the tin sides.  I liked it immediately, could think of at least ten different uses for it that would make my home (and so clearly by extension, MY LIFE) just a little cooler, more nifty and interesting. In the end, I decided to see if it's still there next month and got back in my car empty handed.

On the way back into the city I imagined the woman who used the washtub for its intended purpose, perhaps beside a small wooden house on the edge of a very big plain.  Who knows how many sets of coveralls or flour sack dresses she had to get through, or if she rationed the water in the summer, but I imagine her scrubbing and beating and rinsing all day.  The clean clothes on the line wave in the breeze, a flag flying high against all the lonely unknowns beyond the bounds of the homestead. 

I spent the rest of the morning attending to the small details of my own housekeeping.  I paid my bills, bought coffee and cream to get me through the week, swept the kitchen floor, and bleached the sink.  All in under an hour.  Then I wandered around a museum, read my book in the park, and went to the movies for the second time in as many days.  So much of my life is stamped with the word "IDEAL."  And yet has the hollow ring of an empty tin tub.

Tonight I will gather up my clothes and sheets and towels and go to the laundromat down the road from my home.  I will feed the machine quarters and it will take care of most of the scrubbing and rinsing, leaving me to fight only the loneliest spots that never quite come out in the wash.