Our laundry shoot
is wide enough to fit a seven-year-old and runs from the bathroom down
to the basement laundry bin.
I mull this over. It makes no sense.
My friends put their dirty laundry in something to impede their progress?
Remembering the time we were supposed to bring ivory to class for carving,
I keep my mouth shut.
Next day I confess to my teacher that I don’t have ivory yet, but that my father will be buying me some soon. She hands me a bar of soap and says it’s ok, I can start with the others. I’m horrified. Then I see everyone has soap. Ivory is a type of soap. We only have Lux at our house. Who knew? I’m glad I didn’t come with a beautiful bit of real ivory.
The hampers aren’t any different. I know I don’t get it, but I wish I would before someone finds out.
The laundry shoot isn’t just for dirty laundry. Thin copper hot water pipes run along the far side in parallel and braided through them, for about a foot from the top to about four feet in – as far as my arms can reach when my whole upper body is through the opening… braided through them are all the clothes I hate and don’t want to wear. Raggedy-Anne tights – “so cute!” – a scratchy wool dress, worn once, a dickie with gold flecks.
The dickie has been there almost two
years, in that zone my grandmother finds so magical: