Janit Bianic
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Blue Mondays Make Me Pink

Yesterday as I was facing the sea, hanging my new bright pink and blue and green fringed blanket on the clothesline, I remembered. An image of my father's heavy cotton plaid shirt, came to me in a flash. Today is the first day of summer and his 97th birthday - were he alive. In my mind I bring him a handful of wild strawberries crushed inside my little fist. His soul seems oh so far away, somewhere over the prairie blue skies where he was a pioneer.

Yesterday, I was transported to a winter's night deep in the heart of the Canadian prairies, a time when snow excitedly drifted and swirled over a path underneath our clothesline. Enough clothesline to hang the wash for six kids and a mom and a dad. The snow piled high over my footprints beside sheets, still soggy blue jeans, and brassieres.

Meanwhile, my mother sits at the Booker coal stove in the living room. Seems to absorb all the heat as she rocks in her squeaking chair, waiting for the fire to catch so she can relax and return to her usual spot a foot behind her - directly below what needs to become the indoor clothesline. That along with the banister where my younger brother, who is a twin, toppled head first as we held his feet to lower him to have a better look at Santa Claus.

"If I don't help my mother, who will?" I ask myself. My young mind sags with the weight of the piles of clothes as I carry stacks of clothes back and forth. One of my sisters meets me at the door and places them over the banister and anywhere she can find an unused space within the small house. Careful. Don’t let the heat out with the opening and slamming of the kitchen door.

Forty odd years later, I'm embracing the sea breeze. Looking over at the top end of Denman from my old farmhouse on Vancouver Island, my mind shocks me for a split moment. I can feel the dampness of those clothes, my back aches, and I'm grateful I have enough clothes pegs so that the clothes can be draped for the circulating air and not double layered to hold themselves from falling to the ground.

In the olden days, much work was involved in the carrying and heating of the water that was used for washing so many piles of laundry.  As I carried most of the water and my father filled the wood box, we silently agreed to wait a very long time before doing the bedding in the winter. All the pegs were used quickly.

On this swirling day, I was hanging the last load, I could see I had much more to do and no line to do it with… The end was near and I had “doubled-up” as much as I could. The next day, I brought these clothes in from the outdoors to dry even further. My already frozen fingers grabbed the arm of my father's shirt and gave it a yank. In my haste to be done, I fully expected the whole thing to lift. Instead, only the sleeve was in my hand.

My father would be furious. He only had three shirts, including the Sunday, going-to-Ukrainian-weddings-shirt. Oh, my God! It's in my hand. I freeze.

In that precise second, the moon cleared quite another path through the sky. Brought me a message beam through this storm. "You are Daddy's little girl, his petite fille. Nothing will happen to you".

That’s what you think. I know better. I can hear his booming already, "If you Christly kids had any Goddamn sense you'd know better. Christly kids." (There’s no sin worse than using the Lord’s name in vain to a Catholic boy born in France).

I quiver inside, even colder than the outside air. Can I pretend nothing has happened? I stare at his arm in my right hand. I think up thoughts to protect me from screaming at him. Gee, Dad, it's not my decision to use a 5 Horsepower Briggs & Stratton gas motor blasting against the thin walls of the kitchen to run a wringer washer for a family of eight. It's not my fault.

At this moment, my bare fingers are stiff and I’m too cross. Let him fly into a rage, see if I care. I toss the arm amongst the pile of icy legs and shoulders and backs. Maybe it'll grow back in the warmth of the living room. I don't care. I'll close my ears.

Rounding the corner beside the snow laden Saskatoon bushes, I follow the path past the flickering light from the coal oil lamps in the kitchen window. The last huge pile of laundry rests on my left arm. I reach for the handle on the back door and push my way in, stomping my feet to get rid of most of the snow. The screen door slams against my heels.

My mother hollers from her rocking chair, "Thank you." She always says thank you, even when we do the dishes.

I say nothing. Drag my cold heart further into the darkness of the kitchen. Finally arrive at the door of the heated living room. Kick off my boots across the Winnipeg Tribune newspaper in the kitchen. Walk in my stocking feet to unload my arms onto the two-person couch. Each step I’m thinking about how to break the news and gathering the courage to show mother what I've done. Finally I grab the culprit sleeve from the middle of the pile and wave it at her.

She smoothes my fear with a laugh. Says, "I'll sew that back on when it dries."

Life is full of surprises and memories.

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Janit Bianic is a creative conglomeration of writer, storyteller, documentor, and enthusiast. 250-331-3335
www.janitbianic.ca
Email: janit@janitbianic.ca