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Timeline: March 2008. I gather up all my soiled clothes, drop them in a shiny white machine, add a little powdered detergent, push a button and close the cover. In twenty minutes, I open the cover, transfer the clothes to another shiny white machine, pick up the latest novel and read for an hour. A bell rings and I open the second machine, take out my clothes, and hang them on their hangers. My wash is done. I'm ready for another week.
Timeline: March 1928. I'm five years old. Mom is doing the wash. Dad has brought in the big oblong copper tub and filled it with water on the iron stove top .
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When she figures it's time, she ladles the soapy water into the sink, and replaces it with clear water. To this she adds bluing from the bottle, and begins boiling the clothes again. When this water is ladled out, the clothes are lifted into another tub, and she begins threading each piece of clothing through a wringer (a set of rubber rolls in a contraption fastened to this tub. To make them go through the wringer,
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Then comes the good part: we carry the basket of wrung-out clothing outside to the clothesline. This is great--in summer! In winter--Hell frozen over! Your fingers turn to painful slivers of ice, and then so numb you don't feel them anymore.
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