CLEAN AND FRESH

One of my most vivid memories as a young mother was the amount of laundry I had to do. I did the wash every day. Since I had five children by the age of 29, I had a fairly large load every morning. Between the sheets, towels and their father & my personal things, it was quite an undertaking. I loved it.

The best part of the laundry process was folding the clothes that came from the dryer. I never got into hanging it outside on a line for that “fresh smell.” I figured it was fresh from being just washed, and the dryer sheets always gave the additional boost of softness I was looking for. The heat clinging to the garments after just piling them into the laundry basket was an exercise in meditation. Even now, cleaning out the lint trap and releasing the aroma of a dryer sheet brings me right back to those days, seemingly ages ago.

I would start with the largest items, mainly sheets and towels, pillowcases and baby blankets, before I moved on to the clothing. Table clothes from holiday dinners, cloth napkins and kitchen towels were cherished as I folded them in my “special way” to be able to fit into the buffet where they were stored until the next celebration. I was a sucker for any kind of party, calling up friends and neighbors at the last minute to celebrate “hey, it’s a Wednesday and the snow has melted” party. Those were good times.

The babies and older kids clothes were folded and put into their own separate piles, the graduation of sizes apparent in the piles. The kids would either be watching television or playing outside, but when the task was complete they would marvel at “their” piles stacked on the living room couch.

I began teaching the teens in this house about the finer arts of separating whites from colors, washing in cold vs. hot, and the joys of folding their own things. They did not share my passion.

As luck would have it, the washer in my little house on the lake blew a gasket one winter morning, causing me to take a trip down to the Laundromat. As I filled a much smaller basket with clothes, I was reminded of my days as a single mother. My oldest would help me load up the car, complete with fabric sheets and detergent, and we have our laundry day. It was usually on a Saturday, and since it was just he and I, we could stretch it to every other Saturday.

When my husband and I were first dating, he asked me if this was really true - I told him it was - he laughed and said he knew I had to be the one for him - his favorite Aunt LOVED doing laundry and he always wanted to find a woman like her - who'd a thought love of laundry would be a trustworthy marriage indicator.

Years ago, I met a young soldier at a Rochester Laundromat in the neighborhood. He had been called up, told to report in 24 hours.

“I realized I didn’t have any socks!” he laughed nervously as I watched him scoop the clothes from the dryer full of just that, socks. His folks lived in Cleveland and had no siblings.

When a young Deacon overheard our conversation, he asked someone to turn off the constant background of the t.v. blaring news of the war directly over our heads. Motioning to the twenty people folding socks and underwear and baby blankets, he asked to all join hands as we prayed for our young brother in arms. Everyone participated; no one felt awkward.

I came in to do my laundry, and got a prayer service. May we be always open to the possibility of sharing a prayer even in the most inconsequential of places. Let us thank God and our service men and women for freedom so we can pray anytime, anywhere.

Even in a Laundromat.

HELPING EACH OTHER GET TO HEAVEN

It's rainy and muggy today, one of those mornings when the clouds can’t decide to gently wring themselves out or purge in the form of a downpour. After a very hard and humid week, the baked ground is thankful for the moisture and reprieve from the burning sun. It is Sunday and we had volunteered to give the sermon this morning. Luckily for my husband and I, we were protected by the roof of the large pavilion on the church grounds built for this specific purpose.

Every Sunday during the summer months, a few willing souls in the congregation plan an early morning outdoor worship service. It is much more relaxed than the traditional service, and we can choose the music we want and the prayers to be prayed. Out behind the church building is a plot of land designed to be secluded and private, way down in a gully surrounded by a forest on all three sides.

Positioned amongst the beautiful garden of flowers and all forms of vegetations and under a canopy of trees, we stand beside a wooden cross hammered into the ground and before a makeshift wooden pulpit facing the congregation, who have brought their own lawn chairs in which to sit and listen. Our own little amphitheatre, these hardy souls minister to the birds, the deer and each other for 8 weeks at 8:30 am. After Labor Day and when the air turns cool, we return to the church for the “normal” indoor 10 AM service.

But it is raining this Sunday morning, and we are forced to use the concrete slab of the pavilion, somewhat more sterile, but no less spiritual. We all stand together and listen for a moment as we enjoy the rain and the cool breeze it brings before beginning the service, watching the rain cascade it sheets all around us. It is more beautiful than we would have imagined and could not have planned it any better. We thank God for the beautiful day, to be together, and for all the needed rain.

We both follow a book of prayers and the sermon we speak comes from each of our hearts. Although the pavilion is only half full, it is still received with the spirit in which it is given.

More often than not, my beloved and I worship from the backyard on our deck, overlooking the lake and reading from a scripture book. But it is nice to be able to look into the faces of those whom we love and who revel in hearing the word of God read aloud.

The service is short, only 30 minutes long; its just long enough to fill us all with what we need and what we want to share with them. The sermon is entitled “Helping Each Other Get to Heaven” and one of us cries as we tell our stories.

I thank God everyday for the life I have now, and look forward to every day thereafter, whether it be filled with cascading rain or abundant sunshine. I remind myself yet again, to never take this for granted.

YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE DANCING

Traveling here and there can wear you down, as exciting as it is to wake up in a different place now and then. It has felt like it was taking forever for Spring to arrive this year, and even when the calendar finally confirmed it, the winds kick up over the lake and it feels like November again. The older I get, the more I realize how much I relish the warm weather, even though I love the four seasons.

I’ve come to realize the remedy for the blues is to surround myself with young life, be it gazing at the new buds on trees, bulbs poking their heads up through the hard winterized dirt, or the laughter of kids. Luckily it was coming close to the annual sleepover at Nana’s, coinciding with the Apple Blossom Festival.

My two oldest grandchildren live in the city and a suburb so coming out to the ‘country’ is an adventure in itself. Out here there’s not a lot of t.v. played, the pace is slower and the summer brings long lazy days swimming in the lake.

It is still spring, so apple blossom season and all that brings is in full bloom, pun intended. The Apple Blossom Festival includes a parade, crowning of an Apple Blossom Queen and Princess, a 5K race, carnival, vendors and the “Flyin-in” pancake breakfast held on Sunday at the local airport. It is something we’ve begun to look forward to since transplanting myself here in Wayne County. For those who have grown up with this festival, it is probably not a big deal. Seeing the long rows of pancakes and sausage cooking on griddles, the smell of butter and syrup is intoxicating. Their grandpa is not marching in the parade this year; business responsibilities have taken him out of town. We ate his share between the three of us.

I am a believer in Traditions with a capital “T” and try to create as many of them as I can. They are the framer and keeper of memories; hopefully good ideas to pass on to the next generation will come from them.

This year the festival was met with cold and rainy weather, thunder booming and lightening kept peppering the skies all afternoon. They were not interested in the Saturday parade nor the rides at the carnival, hoping perhaps Sunday would be better. What was important was that we were together.

Instead, we went to Barnes & Noble, had a nice dinner at Red Robin and then to the movies. Borrowing an idea from an old friend of mine, I told them that it was time to get up and dance during the rolling credits at the end of the movie. They looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, but eagerly joined in when they saw me head to the front of the theatre. Learning to overcome self-consciousness is a gift I can give them. I learned a very long time ago not to let people have power over how I feel, and to not take myself too seriously. Seize the moment, no matter how bad you might be feeling, because everything passes, the good AND the bad.

I was happy and felt so much better having them around, listening to them laugh and joke together. They are 9 and 10 years old, an age where everything is funny and the sillier the better. Soon they will be teenagers and may not be as enamored with spending time in the country or even with each other. So for today, I was grateful for this respite, to wash myself in the love and affection we feel for each other, secretly hoping some day they will pass the tradition onto their own families. It was silly, memorable, and wonderful all in the same moment, a snapshot in my mind I will keep forever.

I felt like dancing in the movie theatre so we did, and other began to join us. A new tradition was born.