Memories about my dearest mother…

My sweet mother is a struggling magician of sorts. For the past 30 years she’s been trying to perfect the art of laundry and the mystery of how to clean clothes. It’s an illusion of sorts to think that she can keep white socks white and magically make stains disappear without bleach holes or garment damage.

Laundry has been my mother’s playing ground for her novice magical skills. Mother turned white t-shirts pink and pink dresses white. Large shirts would magically shrink in her care and small, delicate clothing would return with large collars or sleeves. She’s an unintentional magician of sorts, bless her heart.

From what I understand, my father’s mother starched and ironed every garment that entered a dresser drawer, including socks and underwear. In stark contrast, my mother insisted on creating her own homemade starch, which yellowed dress shirts and clogged our iron.  She ironed on an as-needed basis and often times left the iron face down leaving permanent burn marks on the ironing board. It was the trademark every magician needs, right?

The Houdini of Laundry has a certain method to her magical feats. Even today she tries to make the pile of laundry a large family acquires disappear without any effort. Since childhood we always had a huge pile of dirty laundry piled in odd places around the house she referred to as “ the Mount Everest of laundry.” No matter how many chores she delegated or attempts to tackle the Greatest Feat Of All Time, Mount Everest would never disappear.

The sacred mount existed as far back as I can remember. When company would come over and laundry was exposed, my mother would drape a sheet or large towel over the pile, as if to say, “This is an allusion! There is no pile of clothing here! Close your eyes and say abracadabra!” I now wonder what people thought when they saw a large lump covered by a sheet. Did they know it was unfolded underwear and mismatched socks? Or worse, did she think she was fooling anyone?

As a child, we didn’t have a laundry basket where soiled, stained clothes resided until cleaned. Oh no, in my family we had a closet full of dirty clothes our entire family shared. In our hallway near the bathroom was a closet, which served the sole purpose of containing smelly clothes. There was no laundry bag, linen basket, or soiled sack of socks. It was just the closet and the pile of odorous clothing inside.

I didn’t even know what a laundry basket was until the age of 12 when my neighbor asked me to grab her laundry basket out of the closet one afternoon. I blankly stared at her confused as to why on earth she would have a basket in her closet. I snickered at why anyone would put a basket inside a closet. Oh the frivolity, I condescendingly said to my prepubescent self.

I slid open the closet door and saw the most extraordinary organizational invention ever created. Neatly pressed up against her closet wall was a white plastic basket with a lid that read: laundry.

I stormed home, yanked open our mesh screen, stomped straight into the hallway and opened our laundry closet. Out poured a mini avalanche from the Mount Everest of laundry. I climbed inside the closet and closed the door behind me wondering why we were the only family on Meeker Avenue that didn’t have a white, plastic laundry basket.

The fact that I climbed into the foul smelling closet and sat in the dark is perhaps more disconcerting than the closet itself. But I come from a family that keeps dirty laundry in a closet. It’s relative.

Even today, Mount Everest remains a pillar of pride in my mother’s laundry room. But long gone are the days when laundry was strewn into the hallway closet. Now there is a white, laundry bin neatly tucked into the corner of the laundry room. But there still remains a pile of soiled clothing on top of the full bin that is draped with a sheet or blanket when guest come over.

To humor her and puff up her magical prowess, I tapped the draped pile of laundry on a recent visit home and asked, “Wow mom, what is this?” I noticed the ironing board in the corner with her signature burn marks and knew she’s still practicing her magic tricks and allusions of great laundry care.  I proudly tell her all my ribbed sheets are neatly folded into squares and my laundry basket is empty. She smiles, nods, and pulls down the sheet to magically conceal Mount Everest. A magician never reveals her secrets.