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I was a little girl when I stood in the wash shed watching my grandmother wash clothes in an enamel or porcelain washer tub. There was an agitator in the tub, but no timer that I can recall. I guess she must have washed the clothes in batches for as long as she thought was needed to get them clean. The ringer swung away from the tub. I remember her putting the clothes through the rollers very carefully, not only to protect her hands and fingers, but to save the buttons and hooks, too. She would take the smashed clothes from the wringer, put them in her basket and took them to the clothesline to hang. I can still remember the freshly washed and sun-dried sheets. Because there was no fabric softener, the feel of the sheets was a bit more abrasive than what we are accustomed, but you could feel the freshness. I remember being told to go out in a hurry and pick the clothes off the line when the neighbor lit a fire in a 50-gallon metal drum to burn the plants he cleaned from his garden. Sometimes unexpected rain gave the clothes an extra sprinkle and we had to wait longer for them to dry. Once the clothes came inside, most of it was folded and put away. My grandmother’s dresses and my grandfather’s dress shirts needed ironing. I remember my grandmother cooking starch on the stove top and applying it to the clothes before ironing. Her everyday dresses didn’t require starching, but were sprinkled before ironing. I liked sprinkling clothes. I still have an old RC Cola bottle fitted with a sprinkling attachment. I filled the bottle with water, put on the top and sprinkled the clothes. Sprinkling helped to soften the fabric and made ironing easier. When ironing was delayed, the sprinkled clothes were folded into small wads, and placed in a plastic bag, the bread bag was perfect, in the refrigerator until the time for ironing. When I was old enough, I was given the chore of ironing the pillowcases. The hand stamped and embroidered borders edged in crochet stitches were done with thread and crochet needles sharp and strong enough to penetrate the fabric. One day I was standing near the ironing board, which always faced the window, so that my grandmother could see outside as she worked. I stood at the smaller end of the ironing board as we talked. My grandmother steered the iron over the fabric a little too far off the board and on to my leg, leaving a triangular burn scar. When I was coming up, my grandmother was already using an electric iron. There were heavy cast irons in the house, but they were used as door stops. Thank goodness! It’s certainly nice not having to iron much anymore. Many women earned extra money ironing clothes for others who didn’t have the time or patience to do so themselves. I doubt that anyone cooks pots of thick, gooey starch anymore. Those who do require starch use spray. Those who want a good crease in their jeans or shirt sleeves take their clothes to the drycleaner. What I do miss are the many conversations of wash day and while ironing. Years later my grandparents closed in the front porch of their little house on Desire Street and bought an automatic washer and dryer. My grandfather sat next to the washer while it worked its way through the cleaning cycles to be sure no water was leaked onto the floor. Born in the 1890’s, he was amazed by the technology that washed his clothes automatically.

Janet Watson-Cloudet, a Lutcher resident and owner of Brazier-Watson Funeral Home, was recently honored at the City of Donaldsonville’s 30th annual Juneteenth Festival.

The annual T-Black Tomato Field Day was a success again this year despite the soggy conditions we were dealt.