When I was young and we lived on the fruit farm in Booneyville, Ontario, the old wringer washing machine lurked in the scary basement next to the hand pump (we had no running water or inside plumbing). My mother usually did the laundry on Monday mornings. I remember asking her, why, and her answer was that it was tradition. There are probably deeper sociological reasons, but as a kid, I took some comfort in the regularity of her schedule. Mom had to hang the clothes outside, on a wire line attached to a pulley device close to the porch and stretching to the distant telephone pole at the edge of the back yard. I loved the sharp flapping of sheets and undies, the flags…

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