January Column

This first appeared in The Evening Sun on January 23, 2011

Wash day always frightened Barbara J. Fink, who grew up in Union City, New Jersey, just outside of New York City. Every Monday Fink's mother would hang out of the second-story window to pull the dry wash inside, and as a little girl, Fink would cling to her mother's legs in an effort to ground her inside the house.

This is one of the many memories Fink reminisced about when we discussed her poems. She said, "It's nice to know your roots, your family," and hopes that those who read her poems will take pleasure in looking back.

Sometimes we spend so much time looking forward, especially during the month of January when we make resolutions for the year ahead. However, we can't forget that Janus, the Roman god who inspired the name January, had two faces so he could look forward and backward.

Thus, we should not forget the stories of our past, such as Fink's grandfather’s, who peddled fruits and vegetables from his cart in her community. Early in the morning he would take his horse and cart on a ferry across the river into New York City where he bought produce at the market. At the end of the day, her grandfather dropped the reins, and "George horse" knew his way back to the barn at the end of their cobblestone backyard.

If you walked through her backyard on a Monday and looked up, you would see her mother's wash flapping in the breeze. The following poem, Fink's second attempt at poetry, shows much promise for her new-found gift of words. She shows the reader each step of her mother's wash day through all seasons, and I know some of you will remember this process.

Wash Day Circa 1930


Set up the washboard, drag out the huge pot
Some whites were boiled, believe it or not.

Use a big wooden paddle and stir away
So labor intensive was Monday, washday.

Octegon soap was the cleaner of choice
Big golden bar in the water immerse.

Rub, scrub, rub on the old tin board
It was the best Daddy could afford.

A cake of bluing wrapped in cheesecloth
Made an acceptable result come forth.

Dip, swish, swish the bluing pack
All was done as a matter of fact.

Washing and rinsing now all done
Wringing by hand--oh what fun.

Wooden pins in a bag shaped as a dress
I didn't enjoy washday I must confess.

Hanging out the window, I can see Mama still
Winter winds whipping through the house now so chill.

The line was attached to a pole in the yard
And I, the skinny one, became Mama's lifeguard.

I'd hang on to her legs with all of my might
Quivering and shaking and brimming with fright.

If Mama should tumble out what would I do?
I'd call Granny, Grandma and Aunt Gussie too!

They lived all around us on the same street
Surely they'd know her wounds how to treat!

Well dear Mama would hang her wash for the week
I remember the line pulley, oh how it did squeak.

Stripes must be hung in all one direction
Strive, strive she would to reach perfection.

Dirndl skirts and peasant blouses
Sheets, towels and Daddy's work trousers.

Neighbors would judge your wifely skills, you know
If your colors were bright and your whites were as snow.

All would flap, flap in the soft summer breeze
However come winter and all would then freeze.

Mama would go to the window once more
And again she would be chilled to the core.

Reverse the procedure and pull everything in
All frozen solid--how could she win?

Daddy's long johns frozen as stiff as could be
Stood up in the corner for all to see.

Finally defrosted in a puddle they lay
Waiting to dry on a subsequent day.

And so it would go this Monday game
Until, you guessed it, it was Monday again.


Fink moved to Hanover from Whiting, New Jersey eight years ago and just began writing poems this past summer. For years her sister and cousin exchanged poems regularly, but after her sister's death, she has begun writing and sharing poems with her cousin. Fink is currently writing the next poem in her series: Tuesday, ironing day. Her mother's days of the week dishtowels embroidered with each day's work inspired this set of poems.