what remains

I've noticed in more than a few press photos of towns destroyed by the Black Saturday fires, the upright and charred remains of the hills hoist. The outline clearly marking that here, here is a spot someone used to stand with a basket of wet washing and hang it out to dry. Perhaps looking towards the bush and the birds and animals that lived there, taking in the scents of a damp morning. That this person would come and gather the washing in again. Maybe in winter it wasn't even dry yet and had to be spread in front of the fire or heater to dry.

I find this one particularly poignant. All around is utter devastation. As we all know now, it was savage. And yet here is a basket of plastic pegs. Apparently unscathed.  A basket of ordinary plastic pegs. I hope the people here are OK. And that this place will one day soon know the numbing routine of domestic life with it's boredom and pleasure. Although I can't imagine that any washing hung out here would stay clean and non-gritty. Not yet.

new house, new laundry

I can barely remember when I was here last. Of course I keep meaning to come back. It's not as if I don't have anything laundry related to whinge about. The new laundry is a poxy painted red brick, not the sparkling white rendered brick I had planned. We just didn't have time to do it before we moved. Laundries being low on the priority list, because one doesn't actually live in the laundry. The washing machine has sprung a new leak, or has become more obvious because of the slope of the floor. And we tend to forget to take the plug out of the sink, resulting in big floods. But that would be because the new sink is stainless steel and useful, as opposed to the concrete sink at the old house which was really just a mould farm.

What got me back here though was chancing upon this laundromat on the way home the other night. I just love it. In a I'm glad I have a washing machine at home kind of way. Still sometimes I think it would be nice to have to sit somewhere for a while while your washing washed. Read a book. Watch the world go by. A fantasy really, because I'm sure in reality it would be a drag. Except when you're camping. Then it's good.

Anyway. There's a basket of washing that's been sitting on the washing machine for two days waiting to be folded and put away. And it's all mine. How lazy is that?

in honour of the day

Today is a public holiday because of a horse race. I'd be thrilled except that as I normally I don't work on a Tuesday, I don't get an extra day off work. Just three days worth of customers on the days either side and can I tell you this (cue Kevin Rudd voice), they are not happy. Nonetheless it is a beautiful, quiet day outside and right now I am at home, on the computer while Grace sleeps, instead of coming home from playgroup and the park with her needing sleep but fighting me viciously about it. 

Anyway this is supposed to be about the horses. Or something. Last year Alina sent me this photo which I was too slack to use in a timely manner (this happens more often than I care to admit when people send me or alert me to stuff I might like, sorry) so  thought today might be the day.

 

I'm not exactly where the picture comes from, but I think it is cup related. I like the prosaic towels and uncool modern hills hoist foreshadowing expensive horses. That apparently have their own security guards before the cup. So thank you Alina and I hope everyone had a lovely cup day, however you spent it.

domestic bliss, in pink

Yesterday was almost domestic stay at home for a day motherhood bliss. Almost. Hanging washing on the line with the buss of bees droning in the distance and the fragrance of several types of blossom floating past. Grace helping or playing nearby and being the most charming child imagineable. Going to the library and swimming lessons. Wearing underpants for two days in a row. Without being asked. Just taking her nappy and tights off in the morning around ten and appearing in a socks and underpants combo.

And until yesterday, the little accidents were of no consequence. Then there was a doosy. Sh*t from waist to toe, wriggling child, freaked out mother and washing like you wouldn't believe. And I thought my scraping days were over. Never mind, I didn't totally lose my cool and while Grace was in the bath before her nap, we had a lovely chat about not doing pooeeys in your underpants. But I'm not sure that she quite understands the signals of when she needs to go. It's all happening but probably not in a totally linear way. Like I'd like. Still, she's timed it well. Because I think I'll be doing some extra washing for a while. And like, trying not to be so uptight.

I helped Grandmother

I love this book, maybe because I love the work of Jeannie Baker. Haven't been able to get Grace interested yet, but probably she'll come around one day. This one's from the library so it won't have the long lying around time that seems to have worked with other books I'd like her to let me read to her.

from "Grandmother" by Jeannie Baker, Scholastic 1978

I like how the grandmother seems conventionally grandmotherly, she looks grandmotherly (in a dishevelled kind of way), she sews, knits and dotes on her grandaughter. Together they walk through the garden, hand in hand and the girl visits the statues that grandmother says she carved long ago lurking in the gorgeously overgrown garden. I like a grandmother with a past, I do. 

The girl helps her grandmother collect the washing from the line, along with some lavender. You get the sense that domesticity is carried out on a pleasantly minimal level. Sufficent to be comfortable and charming, not so much as to be onerous. I could live a life like that. One day. Maybe.