Freedom and a Murder of Crows (no astrology)

Anvār-i Suhaylī - 1847

August 1965
The screen door bangs loudly behind me as I step onto the back porch, another hot August morning greeting me. In the early morning light, I see the mist hanging over the lawn and dew shimmering on the grass. I know my feet will be wet and cold unless I head back in for my sneakers. I also know that if I wait a mere 30 minutes or so, the blazing hot sun will evaporate that moisture, and I will wish I had cool, wet grass to step into.

I scamper down the stairs, quickly pulling the sheets from the clothesline, folding them as I go. ‘Neat and tidy, neat and tidy. ’ At eleven years old, this mantra is already firmly ingrained in my mind.

Crow watches silently from her perch on the apple tree, bearing witness to my morning work.

After delivering the neatly folded sheets inside, where my efforts are inspected and approved, I return to the back porch for my favorite summer chore.

For most of the year, laundry is done in the dark, dank, dirt-floored basement, a space that seems to have been dug beneath the house as an afterthought. But in the heat of summer, laundry moves to the porch, where an old wringer washing machine takes center stage.

A wringer washer consists of a large tub on legs powered by a simple motor that runs an agitator and two rollers designed to press the water from the fabric.

I fill the tub with the garden hose, add detergent, then the sheets and towels—so many sheets and towels—before flipping the switch. The agitator churns, working out the summer dirt and sweat. When the water turns cloudy, I release the soapy liquid through a valve, sending it gushing onto the lawn. One by one, I feed the heavy, wet fabric through the wringer, squeezing out every last drop. Then I refill the tub, rinse, and repeat. Finally, I return the damp, clean linens to the clothesline and begin again.

A small, family-run motel means a never-ending cycle of sheets and towels. Add to that a family of seven, and the laundry piles up at an almost impossible rate. How fortunate to have a pack of children to manage these and so many other chores.

As I move through the motions, Crow watches me. I am grateful for the attention I sense in her presence. I once heard a legend that crows, if spoken to enough, could learn to mimic human words, much like parrots. So I talk to her, stringing together rhyming nonsense, which she answers with caws and rattles. I believe we share a common language.

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