I do a lot of hand wash because I have all these fragile homemade pieces, vintage pieces, hand dyed, passed along super designer pieces. Then, it all goes on the line. My mom used to only use the dryer when it rained. Grew up on farms, my parents. My dad fills up a gallon milk container with the water from the shower while he’s waiting for it to warm up. Then, he waters the plants with it later. It’s so logical, this way of life.
I gather colors together in separate bags. They go on the line together like they are family to each other. Now that I look at them, they are a sort of interesting combination of characters…
“Sure, we have color in common, my dear, but I am a Marc Jacobs dress, and you are a… What are you, anyway?”, asks the red and brown dress.
“Me? I am from a… well, I guess a kind of Gap type store… but in Paris,” answers the red slinky top.
“Ha!” says the Marc Jacobs dress. “You were made for commoners. I bet they made ten thousand of you. I shouldn’t be drying next to you. As a matter of fact I am made of wool. I am lined! I can’t believe I’m not being dry cleaned.”
“I don’t know if this is true, but I heard you are second hand. Label or not, I am sorry to say you were given away… I was chosen on a very special trip. I have sentimental value. And besides, dry cleaning usually pollutes the air.”
(Minutes of quiet from the Marc Jacobs dress)
“Well,” says the red slinky top, “It’s okay. Laura likes you, too. Or you wouldn’t have been taken home. You wouldn’t be so lovingly laundered and hung in a sunny garden.”
“Sniff, sniff… You think so?”
“I know so… even if your weight with all that wool and lining pulls down this line to the point of breaking. It better not break. It looks dirty down there!”
“Don’t even talk like that! You’re scaring me!”