August 13, 2008

• ….I’ve never been the queen of anything before, but I’ve always said that if there was a competition for the Queen of Laundry, I might have a shot at winning.

                           

  Laundry is a constant in my life and has been for the entire 38 and one-half years of our marriage. This job is as much a part of my routine as getting up each morning and brushing my teeth. Some days there are three or four loads and some days fewer, but it is the rare day, indeed, when there is not at least one load of laundry that must be washed in our home.

  Of course, living on a farm is a big part of why I do laundry. When we undress at the end of the day, there is simply not the option of hanging our clothes back up for another day’s wear. No way. Too much dirt.

  Ah, dirt… such a mild, benign-sounding little four-letter word. How misleading!And though there is a certain amount of good, old-fashioned dirt involved in the challenges of my laundry basket, the word doesn’t even begin to touch upon the myriad of contaminants, impurities and just plain filth that a farmer can wear by the end of the day.

  Crawling on the ground under a clogged-up baler in the hayfield does provide the opportunity for some soil to be ground into a sweat-soaked shirt. That shirt I can get clean, because it will respond to old-fashioned soap and water. It’s the one that he wears when he’s crawling around on the shop floor, under the tractor with the stopped-up fuel filter that presents a few problems. This shirt, with its gobs of grease, dousing of diesel fuel and mud brought in on the tractor tires, mixed all together, is the one that gives me a headache.

  For years, I’ve begged my husband to be extra careful handling diesel fuel. Even a slight spill on a garment, when thrown into a washer full of other dirty jeans and work shirts, will contaminate the whole load, and if one then throws the works into the dryer, the heat makes it all stink to high heaven. The only real remedy I’ve found for diesel fuel smell is pure sunshine and fresh air. Enough time hanging outside will eventually rid garments of that lingering aroma, if one is patient. One day is not enough, and winter can be a particularly difficult time.

  Mechanical issues are just the tip of the difficult-laundry iceberg. From equipment, let’s move our discussion to livestock and the laundry issues they create. Anyone who has been around cattle knows they have a propensity to excrete, defecate and urinate when in close contact with humans. *IT* happens. Unfortunately, I have been the victim of this sort of close encounter, and I keep a watchful eye at all times on any animals around which I am working. I’ve gotten quite adept at dodging, jumping or, at the very least, turning my back. It just isn’t pleasant to be splattered with poop and etc.

  But my husband doesn’t seem to have the same aversion to wearing animal waste. Perhaps it is because he is required to have more physical contact with the animals and simply cannot do his job without the inevitable side effects.

                                   

  I have learned to make certain secret concoctions of cleaners, pre-treatments, and scrubs that will usually take care of this type of organic stain. But there is one that, like diesel fuel, has been the bane of my laundry-goddess existence. It is the sleeve, and if you have worked around cows you’ll know what I mean.

  We have mama cows that must raise babies in order to earn their right to live on our farm, eat our feed and enjoy our protection. If, when checking the cows twice a year, a mama has no calf and is not visibly, unquestionably expecting a calf, she must be checked. I remember the first time I learned what this procedure demanded; I nearly fainted. I was young and innocent. Now, after decades of witnessing first-hand this necessary part of farm life, it has become so commonplace that I don’t even give the preg-checking a second thought…until time to wash the shirt that the preg-checker wears.

  I try to meet my husband at the back door and ask him to immediately remove the offensive garment before it enters our home. If it is a nice, warm day, holding the shirt at arm’s length I dash to the nearest outside faucet and give it a high-power wash, getting off all that is loose. Then it gets a presoak in a bucket in the utility sink with some of my secret stuff. Finally, into the laundry for a hot wash, and voila! Only a slight green cast to that sleeve indicates how it was abused.

  Now, does anyone remember the good old days before there were disposable diapers? If you are that old, you’ll know how I deal with that shirt in coldest winter, when the outside faucet is not an option. Indoor plumbing is a good thing.

  Today, I’ve been working on something that has the Queen stumped. My husband wore his favorite white t-shirt last Saturday. It was a nice, relaxing afternoon, and he was supposed to watch the ballgame, read his book and get some rest. Instead, he slipped outside, wearing this pure, soft white shirt, and decided to work on his old boat. The result is a spot of blackest grease, right in front, that I was not aware of until AFTER it had gone through one wash cycle.

  A farmer’s wife cannot afford to cower before a challenge. Thus, I’ve Cloroxed, Shouted, Oxy-cleaned, hand-soaped, Fantastic-ed, Cascaded, Gained, and nail-polish-removered, in all sorts of combinations and applied with a brush. I even resorted to mineral spirits…all to no avail. That little spot, the size of the end of a pencil eraser, is still there, slightly faded but still black.

  I guess it is time to relinquish my crown.

  • 9:57 am
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