The Flinging of the Clothes

My grandmother had a set of seven tea towels that had embroidered pictures on them and the sayings: Wash on Monday, Iron on Tuesday, Sew on Wednesday, Market on Thursday, Clean on Friday, Bake on Saturday, Worship on Sunday. One for each day. I'm not sure if she followed this schedule exactly but I think she made a pretty good stab at it.

I, on the other hand, only partially work the list.  I know I worship on Sunday, and other days too, actually. The rest may be spread out a little. Or ignored. That ironing thing: I've heard of it but the exact concept escapes me. I know it involves some kind of super-heated medieval torture instruments but they aren't seen in polite company these days.

The Washing on Monday, however, if you do it right, now that can be a great celebration.  It doesn't have to be on Monday, any day will work. At our house when the boys were younger we had The Flinging of the Clothes night.  Josh's friend, Brian would even join us, rushing in the door at the last minute yelling "Did I miss the Flinging?"  I think Brian was actually the one who bestowed the name on our festivity the first time he witnessed it.

The observance evolved, over the years. First with Dennis going to the Laundromat during our early marriage and washing all the whites with a burgundy sweatshirt.  He wore hot pink underwear for about six months after that. I think there was a method to his madness but it still didn't get him out of laundry duty. Then when the boys were really young I did it all and there were many arguments over why in the world is it easier to hide your dirty clothes under the bed and behind the door than it is to put them in the hamper? And the underwear and towels left on the kids' bathroom floor every morning! Sheesh!! Were you raised by bears?

Here is a handy household hint:  if your kids can't seem to get things from the bathroom to the hamper, put a hamper in the bathroom itself.  We bought trashcans with swinging lids just for this purpose and put them in the bathroom and in each of the bedrooms.  The smaller size of a trashcan instead of real hamper works best and it's fun to toss something from across the room and set that lid spinning.

Finally we made peace with the laundry monster and turned it into a family activity.  Okay, Dennis didn't participate in the Flinging but he usually managed to hit the hamper in our closet. At the time we had a two-story house with a balcony that overlooked the entry hall.  On the appropriate evening everyone who had dirty laundry upstairs gathered up his trash can/hamper and dumped the contents over the balcony.  It made quite an impressive pile. There may have been some aiming at your brother involved when things were being thrown over. Then the boys brought everything into the family room and added them to Dennis's and my things making an even bigger pile.  Then I lit a match to the pile and we all danced----oh, wait, that's a fantasy I toyed with from time to time. I mean, then began the Flinging.

Our washing machine had settings for Normal, Permanent Press and Delicate, so everybody grabbed something and we zinged the big pile into six smaller---make that less big---piles of light and dark colors for each setting.  It was similar to the scenes of the tomato fights in Spain that you see on  TV every year. Wild and boisterous, fast and furious.

Being the only female in a house full of males, I got the Delicate pile all to myself for the most part unless someone thought it was hilariously funny to run around and pretend to have Mickey Mouse ears by wearing a piece of my intimate apparel on his head.  Or during the period that someone who shall be nameless wore Hammer Pants that were marked for delicate washing. (Hey, this may be another blog--with pictures--although this all can be avoided with a little persuasion on someone's part. The sum of $500 in small bills under the rock by the back door should do it. Or a new cordless mouse. Just sayin')

A load in the washer and a load in the dryer when we went to bed made it seem by morning that the job was well on it's way.  As long as everybody participated in The Fling, I would wash and fold the clothes during school hours and at night people put away their own things.

When the boys were little we had those plastic grocery carts. (I know they were boys but boys can learn about shopping and dolls and things like that!) I would put the clothes in each of their carts and they took them to their rooms to be put away. The free-spirited child opened his drawer, turned the cart upside down and dumped in the clothes.  The other (let's not say anal retentive, let's say more serious) refolded the clothes, because I didn't do them right, and placed them in his drawer in precise layers. When their clothes got too big for the cart they used the laundry baskets. One continued to carefully put them away, the other kept the basket in his room and just lived out of it for the week.  Why waste extra motion opening up that drawer over and over?

Each boy learned to use the washer and dryer himself when Junior High started. The fact that they were graded on bringing their gym clothes back on Mondays freshly laundered and someone's mother may have forgotten to wash them that weekend and--Fine! I'll do it myself!!--happened made it rather simple. 

Today they each have their own washer and dryer, their own kids and their own big piles of dirty clothes. (I heard that Brian changed his name, became a Naval officer and someone else on board ship does his laundry for him, but  I know he knows how to do laundry when he's on leave) I don't know if they have instituted The Flinging of the Clothes but if not they are missing a lot of fun. Their kids are just about the right age now.

The other day I ran the washing machine and when I went to empty it into the dryer I found I had forgotten to put the clothes in. Somebody in this house wanted to blame it on a Senior Moment or worse, but I think I just need to start my own Mini-Fling to get things back in sync. Then maybe I better work on some of those other tea towel days, maybe the baking one, something chocolate, perhaps. Three down, some other number to go.  My grandmother would be proud.