Mary Doig's "Clothesline" design. Hooked by Mary.
Is there anything sweeter than crawling into a freshly made bed? Well truthfully, there’s probably lots of better things, but the moment you are sliding between a crisp set of sheets, it’s divine! The sheets are tugged tight and smooth as glass, they feel pristine and starchy clean. They touch only the high points of your body, draping over you like a canopy, not settled around you like when they’ve been used and tousled about.
I take great pleasure in a well-made bed. My hubby might tell you a different story as far as the day to day maintenance is concerned, because after the first time, I could care less if it’s made or not. After that first time, I like to crawl into a soft bed with wrinkled sheets that settled around you like a cotton hug.
When I strip the bed of the old and put on the new, I take great pains to do it right. My PCW training kicks in and I fold those hospital corners and hand press the wrinkles to the flatness of a pubescent girl. I had that experience last evening and an ahhhh escaped my lips as I slipped between the covers. I lay there cocooned by 60 thread count softness with a big ole smile on my face.
I love the aroma of sheets from the closet. In our house they smell of wood, drawing from the materials used to build the shelves. I didn’t paint them for that reason. We don’t use detergents that have scents so they derive their fragrance from their surroundings. I would prefer clothesline freshness but in our house, that invites pollen indoors that is better left outside, and I’m not that much of a work horse. In my mother’s time she hung laundry outside weekly except of course for rainy days that would preempt the Monday washday to the next sunny day. Even winter, with frozen digits and cold wind whipping at her coat, she stood at the line and hung our clothes. I remember watching her from the window, seeing the steam rise from the plastic laundry basket. Each piece of apparel would rise from the pile limp and by the time it was hung it would be as hard as a board. She would later bring them inside, slacks would stand alone, shirts with unbending arms and we would fold them to hear the snap and crack as they groaned against the pressure. I never understood the reason for hanging wash outside when after the thaw it seemed as wet as when it was hung. Was all this just for the delicious, fresh scent that only outdoors could bring? Then mom would hang the wet wash on racks in front of the stove to dry. Back then, doing laundry with the wringer washer was an all-day process. Then the hanging on the line, taking it all down and ironing took her well into the evening. I do remember the smell of the outside filling the kitchen. Freshly pressed shirts hung on wire hangers, towels folded on the table, socks for a family of five paired and neatly stacked. The heat of the iron as it steamed each garment smelled like fresh potpourri.
When I was much younger, I tried the wash line route but icy fingers are painful. Struggling with clothespins when your hands are too numb to feel was a huge turnoff. Thank goodness for modern convenience. The dryer just might be the best invention since sliced bread. My mother was a hard working woman who kept us scrubbed clean and neatly pressed….her lot, not mine.
In her day she ironed everything. From dish towels to the cotton bras, underwear, sheets and she starched the heck out of my father’s work shirts. His pants had a sharp enough crease to cut butter. He went to work every day immaculate as if a model for a men’s catalog. His shirt gleamed white, his tie a smart contrast, the result of my mother’s pride for her white collar guy. We went to school as neat, only a hair or two out of place after one of the frizzy perms.
I iron nothing. Only the clothes I put on my back in the morning gets a lick and a promise pressing. Items folded as soon as the dryer stops is pretty much good enough for me, and if they lay there for a time, so be it; I’m not offended by wrinkles in a tea towel. If I had extra time in the day to perform domestic perfection I’d do something else, like throw a ball in the backyard for the pups. No one will ever comment on my domesticity after I’m gone, unless it’s to express their horror at sights seen they can’t forget.
I take great pleasure in a well-made bed. My hubby might tell you a different story as far as the day to day maintenance is concerned, because after the first time, I could care less if it’s made or not. After that first time, I like to crawl into a soft bed with wrinkled sheets that settled around you like a cotton hug.
When I strip the bed of the old and put on the new, I take great pains to do it right. My PCW training kicks in and I fold those hospital corners and hand press the wrinkles to the flatness of a pubescent girl. I had that experience last evening and an ahhhh escaped my lips as I slipped between the covers. I lay there cocooned by 60 thread count softness with a big ole smile on my face.
I love the aroma of sheets from the closet. In our house they smell of wood, drawing from the materials used to build the shelves. I didn’t paint them for that reason. We don’t use detergents that have scents so they derive their fragrance from their surroundings. I would prefer clothesline freshness but in our house, that invites pollen indoors that is better left outside, and I’m not that much of a work horse. In my mother’s time she hung laundry outside weekly except of course for rainy days that would preempt the Monday washday to the next sunny day. Even winter, with frozen digits and cold wind whipping at her coat, she stood at the line and hung our clothes. I remember watching her from the window, seeing the steam rise from the plastic laundry basket. Each piece of apparel would rise from the pile limp and by the time it was hung it would be as hard as a board. She would later bring them inside, slacks would stand alone, shirts with unbending arms and we would fold them to hear the snap and crack as they groaned against the pressure. I never understood the reason for hanging wash outside when after the thaw it seemed as wet as when it was hung. Was all this just for the delicious, fresh scent that only outdoors could bring? Then mom would hang the wet wash on racks in front of the stove to dry. Back then, doing laundry with the wringer washer was an all-day process. Then the hanging on the line, taking it all down and ironing took her well into the evening. I do remember the smell of the outside filling the kitchen. Freshly pressed shirts hung on wire hangers, towels folded on the table, socks for a family of five paired and neatly stacked. The heat of the iron as it steamed each garment smelled like fresh potpourri.
When I was much younger, I tried the wash line route but icy fingers are painful. Struggling with clothespins when your hands are too numb to feel was a huge turnoff. Thank goodness for modern convenience. The dryer just might be the best invention since sliced bread. My mother was a hard working woman who kept us scrubbed clean and neatly pressed….her lot, not mine.
In her day she ironed everything. From dish towels to the cotton bras, underwear, sheets and she starched the heck out of my father’s work shirts. His pants had a sharp enough crease to cut butter. He went to work every day immaculate as if a model for a men’s catalog. His shirt gleamed white, his tie a smart contrast, the result of my mother’s pride for her white collar guy. We went to school as neat, only a hair or two out of place after one of the frizzy perms.
I iron nothing. Only the clothes I put on my back in the morning gets a lick and a promise pressing. Items folded as soon as the dryer stops is pretty much good enough for me, and if they lay there for a time, so be it; I’m not offended by wrinkles in a tea towel. If I had extra time in the day to perform domestic perfection I’d do something else, like throw a ball in the backyard for the pups. No one will ever comment on my domesticity after I’m gone, unless it’s to express their horror at sights seen they can’t forget.
Sue Cunningham's "Coastal Quilts" design. Hooked by Pat Rushbrook
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