Tuesdays. In winter it was Saturday that was my favourite but in summer, nothing was better than Tuesday. We were the only folks I knew with a hot air dryer. It was amazing. Mom would throw wet clothes in, push a button and presto the clothes were dry, clean and warm. And Tuesday was the day the ceremonies would begin. She’d start each Tuesday morning with a cheery “Good morning merry sunshine!” and then she’d say the words that would remind me of what was to come that day “bring me your dirty clothes.” It wasn’t so much the collecting of dirty clothes that I enjoyed, or dragging them down the stairs but I knew that there was something I would receive from all this effort, something that made Tuesdays the very best days ever. I’d wipe the sleep from my eyes and roll onto the floor lifting the white bed skirt, taking a quick peek under my bed. And there I would see them, my treasures, laid one beside the other. Oh the things I would create today, my mind whirled with creativity. My mother would call once again snapping me out of my daydream. Bring them now, I’m starting, she would say. I would rush to gather the clothing littered about my room. My favourite blue shorts, my new red dress I wore to Cindy’s birthday party. What fun we had that day! My green striped t-shirt. And there was more. I’d load my arms so full then tumble down the stairs. Teetering one way then the next pushing and kicking whatever fell to the floor with my feet, dragging it along with me. Then finally I would arrive and at the feet of my mother, like an offering I would dumb my grimy clothing. She was not nearly as excited as I was about Tuesdays and I could tell by the way she would throw clothes with such fury, sorting colors making sure never ever to mix them.
Then I would wait. So patiently, only asking every ten minutes when it was time. “Patience” she would say. “Okay” I would reply suppressing the urge to grab what I wanted and run. I would sit on the old stool by the counter. The one that was missing several of its foot rests. I would sit with my elbows resting on the Albright counter top, my chin in my hands watching the clock. It was always the same. 60 minutes; 60 long minutes before it was time to check. On the days that the humidity was high, of the dryer was over stuffed it took longer. “Run and get your stuff. So you’re ready” She’d say a bit amused with my obsession, looking at me with a quizzical look wondering whose child was I any way. I didn’t care, I’d been waiting for this all week. And then it happened, the buzzer rang and I bolted into the room where the clothes lay on the tiled floor beside the machine that was teaching me one of life’s great lessons – good things come to those who wait. I grabbed the handle and pulled urging my mother to take the clothes out. Faster. Faster. And when she was finished she’d do the thing that she did before throwing another load of limp and soggy clothes in; she’d check the lint trap. Slowly, so slowly, it seemed to take minutes as she pulled the long meshy screen from the bowels of the beast. There plastered to it, would be what I’d been waiting for so long. Lint. Wonderful colors, shades of pink and red, she must have washed my new dress, threads from dad’s plaid shirt, little balls of dark blue denim. Carefully she would peel it, carefully she would lay it in my hands. She knew how I liked it, smooth, one single piece. Carefully I would carry it back to the counter I had been sitting by, waiting. Then I would begin. The pink and red became a glorious sunset, blue balls were unwound to make waves of water, threads became trunks of trees, and on the process would go. Nothing was spared. Every piece of lint became part of the grand picture; a petal, a flower, a coconut, boats sailing. And when I was finished, I lifted it with such care not wanting to mess a thing, carried it up the stairs, rounded the corner to my bedroom, knelt on my knees beside my bed, lifted the skirt with one hand and slowly, gently place my new creation beside the rest. I looked at them. Watchfully. The colors of my everyday life glued into beautiful pictures. I laid down beside them running my fingers gently over the soft, fuzzy surface and sighed. Tuesdays.
