Household Word
Take Me to the River

Yesterday, while I was in my basement contemplating a mound of dirty laundry, I found some old National Geographic magazines. Instead of sorting the whites and the colors, I became engrossed in the magazines. In one issue, there was a photo essay on caves (they looked a lot like my basement laundry room, only sunnier). Another had pictures of women washing their clothes in a river. Ugh, I thought, I’m glad I don’t live there! There are probably crocodiles in that water.

Then I looked at the picture again. The sun was shining on the river. The women were smiling and talking to each other. Some were even laughing. I never laugh when I do the laundry.

Laundry is my least favorite chore. Maybe I hate it because I always end up with a pile of mismatched socks. Or maybe I dread doing the laundry because my washer and dryer are in the basement, wedged between my husband’s tools, rusty tricycles and those old magazines. It’s dark down there. Lonely, too. I usually avoid doing the wash until my family runs out of clean underwear. "Wear your bathing suits under your clothes," I tell my kids. "I’ll do the laundry later today."

That’s why I was staring at a mountain of dirty clothes that perfectly preserved my family’s not-so-recent fabric history. At the bottom were nearly petrified beach towels from our trip to the beach last summer. Next came a fetid sediment of soccer pads and kneesocks from the fall season. The strata continued with a layer of linty fleece tops. Dingy underwear and mismatched socks from yesterday crowned the peak. It was a grubby monument to the merits of nudism.

I examined the picture of the women at the river again. They don’t have their own washers with a special cycle for lingerie. They don’t have dryer sheets, fabric softener or color-safe bleach. Heck, they don’t even have plumbing. All they have are water, rocks, sunshine and each other. Sure, my Maytag might get clothes a little cleaner, but I think I’d be willing to sacrifice a few shades of white for a laugh with friends on laundry day. Besides, I could blame the missing socks on the crocodiles.

I imagined the women on my street, washing load after load of laundry alone in their dark basements. Somehow, the women at the river bank seemed far less primitive.

I thought about my town. There is no river, and besides, there must be all sorts of wetlands regulations that would prohibit public laundering. Then I had an idea.

I called my neighbor Denise and asked, "Do you have a pile of laundry in your basement?"

"Do I ever!" she said. "It’s creeping up the basement stairs. It scares me."

"Get it," I ordered as I held the phone with my chin and stuffed my own composting clothing into big black trash bags.