The Never Ending Laundry Saga

I don’t have a clothes dryer. Before you drop in disbelief, I want to let you know that not many people do here. Power is very expensive and dryers tend to suck up a great deal. They also throw off heat, shrink your clothes and dramatically cut the lifespan of every piece of cotton you own. Are you convinced to live without one yet? Yah, neither am I. The truth is, if you really want your dolce vita bubble burst, is that behind every quaint photo of fluttering white linen over a quiet Italian lane, is somebody busting their hump in a never-ending cycle (no pun intended) of washing, carrying, hanging, picking up and rewashing ‘cause it got dirty when someone forgot to put enough clothespins on, checking to see if they’re dry, sniffing for freshness, taking in, piling in the corner in hopes that the elusive creature known as the Ironing Fairy will come and take pity on you and finally, realizing that she hates you and has vowed never to darken your door again after the last time, ironing everything yourself.

Aside ~Thankfully, I can iron in front of Cerberus. Yes, I named the air conditioner.~

I find laundry here to be an exercise in patience. European front loading-washers take forever to finish. It’s frustrating when you just want to have it done with.
I do miss my dryer. I have a big history with dryers. When I was small, we had an industrial dryer for the motel. It was into this gargantuan lovely, my brother and I decided that I would go after a particularly good rainstorm. I thought it efficient, I could dry my hair and clothes at the same time and, as an added bonus, check to see if I “Pink Panthered” afterwards. Sadly, my Mom stopped the experiment before we could find out.

In our Canadian winter, the most coveted spot in the yard was the dryer vent by the backdoor. Frozen mittens could be thawed, toes warmed. It smelt amazing. Clean and warm. Comforting. I can see through the basement window, my Dad’s shadow folding never-ending sheets with strong arms. Dryers are home.

But, I must admit, early yesterday morning before the heat came, when it was quiet and the door to the balcony was open, I could hear my white, fresh-smelling sheets fluttering and billowing. I went to take them in - my standards over the field, my flags without colours. And as I folded them, it occurred to me that they were, in a roundabout way, white sails bringing me home.