Wash Day

Wash Day

It seems like a moment ago, just yesterday,

On the hill that held memories of more than play.

Mom pulling clothes from here and there,

Out onto the back porch as though she didn’t care.

It was a duty, a job, a labor of love,

That’s what she told herself as baskets she tugged.

With three children watching and clamoring around,

She shewed them away to find some other playground.

Wash day was no fun for her at all,

In the coal fields, this is what we saw.

Hot water heated on the kitchen cook stove,

There weren’t any games or TVs, no treasure troves.

On the back porch outside in the breeze,

Stood the washing machine always ready to please

We watched her tote rinse water from out back,

A spring box provided the rinse water she lacked.

Pushing and pulling from morning until late afternoon,

She finished up all the wash and wasn’t ever too soon.

Some wash days would spill over into the late hours,

Causing attitudes once happy to fade or even go sour.

It was the way of the mountains at least at that time,

When mothers were left home to the wash, men to the mines.

I and my brothers watched the washing standing afar,

Keeping clear of the wringers, the tubs, and her tears.

Beans in the big pot sitting on the cook stove.

Everyone ate them whether young or old.

It was "wash day" in the mountains where I lived far away,

That’s now only a fond memory, one I’ve kept to this day.

By Dan R. Fowler

For : Astrid