Wringer Washer Wednesday

By Felix L. Perry

Washday Wednesday through the week

I can’t forget the smell of Tide and bleach

Mother wiping hands on an apron tied in a bow

Rough bristled scrub brush always just in reach

Little Baby Jimmy’s diapers by the dozen

Little girl pinafores in shades of pink

The other boys patched and faded dungarees

Dad’s work clothes separate soaking in the sink

Fresh baskets going to and from the line

The wind was our automatic dryer

No modesty from house to house

Everyone’s bloomers hung from that wire

The noise of that old washer vibrating

Would keep the beat for young George Jones

While mother sang as a back up chorus

In Mother’s sweet Newfie accent tones

Now that washing machine is in a museum

That old hot iron a doorstop some where

The memory though will last my lifetime

So I just thought with you I’d share…