Eighteenth Century Laundry Day

by Kathy Fischer-Brown

In my last post I discussed some of the more fascinating aspects of researching and writing historical fiction. You might even remember my mention of how incorporating details from the research into the writing helps bring the period and setting alive for me as well as for the reader. These details also go a long way toward keeping the characters in their place and time—and the author from creating annoying anachronisms. These aspects of dress, furniture, food and its preparation, travel, and accomplishing the day-to-day tasks, which we today might take for granted, are among those little motes that add to the “feel” of the time.

This has never been more true when you consider how laundry was done back in the mid- to late 1700s. Here in the early 21^st century, tossing a load of wash into a machine (top loading or the newer, more efficient front loaders), adding your choice of liquid or powdered detergent, softener and whitener is pretty much a no brainer. The cleansing agent even comes with its own handy measuring cup; temperature settings involve nothing more than the turn of a dial (or press of a button), as does the size of the load and water level. In many cases, you can even choose an extra rinse or spin. When the load is finished, the machine beeps, lest you’ve gone on to something else in the 20-or so minutes it takes for the cycle to complete and let it slip your mind. Then you toss the whole mass of t-shirts, socks, towels, and what-not, into the other machine; add a dryer sheet; set the temperature (for wash and wear, permanent press, or delicate); flip the switch; and for another 30-40 minutes you can play ball with the dogs in the yard, run to the supermarket for those much-needed ingredients for your mid-week supper, or catch up on the latest episode of the TV show you’d DVR’d the night before. (Or on my case, you research some more and/or write.)

Even with these modern conveniences as a part of my life, I hate doing laundry. But while writing the opening scene of Where the River Narrows, my contribution (along with Ron Crouch) to BWL’s “Canadian Historical Brides” series (Quebec), I realized just how lucky I am.

First, consider how difficult a task it was to schlep and heat enough water to wash bed linens, under garments, shirts, tablecloths, and a host of incidentals for a considerably sized family and their servants. Consider also that “wash day” (with these and other complications) was more likely a monthly affair rather than the two- or three-times a week event here in the present. And then consider that, even as it was an all-day, coordinated event, it had to be done, and was done in all seasons and all weather.

From an interesting site (http://www.woodvilleplantation.org/Schedule/laundry_day_18th_century1.pdf) I found when looking into this aspect of the life of Elisabeth Van Alen (the book’s heroine), I found the following:

Water would have been carried to the boiling cauldron in buckets carried on the shoulders with a yoke. Assuming that each of these buckets holds 2 ½ gallons, the laundress would be able to transport 5 gallons per trip. … The boiler used to hold the heated water generally held 20-40 gallons of water per individual load, thus requiring a minimum 4 trips per load of laundry. (Not including 10 more gallons for the scrub and rinse water!)

Fortunately for Elisabeth, her family home is situated on the Mohawk River, with a creek flowing down from the hills on the east side of their house. But this little treatise from the Woodville Plantation in Bridgeville, PA, also points out that fire was vital to heating this water, along with the trials and tribulations of amassing enough wood:

Generally on wash day, the laundress and her crew would awaken at 4:30 AM in order to gather wood and prepare the fires used to heat the water. On an average day, cooking fires would require approximately 30 large pieces of wood to prepare all three meals for the day. The amount used on laundry day would most likely be double that amount, or 50-60 large pieces of wood. Laundry fires were generally larger, and the heavier, knotty wood chunks that were unsuitable for the controlled cooking fires would have been used during the laundering process. Assuming that a large piece of split wood weighs approximately 3 pounds, an 18^th century laundress would be required to move 150-200 pounds of wood, prior to even beginning the task at hand.

Then there was the matter of soap. Or the lack of it. And getting out stains (no miracle spray leave-on-and-throw-in-the-machine wonders). 

Commercially-made soap could be bought, but it was very expensive and not always available, especially out on the New York frontier in 1774. So, this was something that was made at home (along with candles) from animal fats and the accumulated ashes from the fireplace(s). Lye was caustic and not easy on the hands, to put it mildly (no pun intended). But it did its job well. This concoction was added to the “copper,” usually a large pot that would also double as cooking vessel, which was placed over the fire built from those unwieldy logs lugged in for the purpose and those 30-40 gallons of water hauled from the creek. It was a hot and sticky job, agitating the contents with paddles, then extricating the steaming articles, rinsing and wringing them before setting them to dry. 

The favored method of drying was to spread the wash on low-lying bushes in the sun, or laying them out on the grass—something about the effects of chlorophyll. (Remember, this description is about what it was like during clement weather; imagine doing laundry in the depths of winter!) There were clothes lines back then, but the clothespin hadn’t yet been invented. And when everything was dry, there was the task of smoothing out the wrinkles.

The iron was an item that not every household could afford. And even if they could afford an iron, they would have to own at least two. These were flat-irons or “sad irons” (from the word “solid,” which is exactly what they were). Heavy, cumbersome beasts, they demanded to be kept close to the fire to stay hot. Which, in turn, led to the unfortunate eventuality of their picking up soot and grime, and…you guessed it…smearing smudge—if not burning holes—over the stuff you just spent the better part of the day sweating and and toiling over to get clean. One innovation of the time was the box-iron, which happily did away with scorching. These irons had a hinged door on the back and were fitted with an iron insert that could be kept hot and swapped out with another to prevent burning your linens. More common though—and a lot less hazardous—was the linen press: a table with a parallel board attached, which, when the screws were tightened over folded linens, did the job just right without hot slugs and scorching irons.

Starching was also done, a task that I am most thankful has lost its popularily. But they did it on a common basis. Without Niagara Spray Starch. Instead, they used water collected after cooking potatoes. (Fascinating how they made ample and varied use of pretty much everything they raised, produced, or created with their hands.)

Most well-to-do families of this period employed servants to do laundry and other menial chores, but Elisabeth’s family lives under extenuating circumstances. These compel her not only to supervise but to take charge and participate in many a mundane task, such as laundry, and organizing the family's meager staff. Qualities that will serve her well later on in the story when the American Revolution turns her world upside-down. When her home and lands are confiscated by Rebels, she and what remains of her family, is forced to flee to Canada. And as Shakespeare once said, “Thereby hangs a tale.”

I hope you enjoyed this little journey into the past. Please check out the first installments of Book We Love’s “Canadian Historical Brides” series of novels. Comments are always welcome :-)

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her 2016 release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon, Kobo, and other online retailers.

"August...die she must"

Credit:DavidKinghamPhotography

As summer comes to an end here in the northeastern U.S., I usually feel a sense of sadness come over me. I love summer and hate to see it go. Even this record-setting heat and humidity we’ve been experiencing for the past few weeks hasn’t put a damper on the season for me. We’ve been blessed with fresh tomatoes aplenty (three varieties), peppers, zucchinis (green and golden) and assorted herbs. And I love going shoeless in the yard :-)

The pool has been sparkling clear for my newly retired husband and Evie, our mutant springer spaniel (I don’t swim, though; don’t ask why). It’s astounding to realize that it will soon be Labor Day and schools have already reopened here. The season I wait for through the endless New England winters (which usually extend into spring) is over seemingly before it even started. 

One reason I’m feeling a bit blue is that for the umpteenth year in a row, I was unable to view the Perseid meteor showers. After a spectacular show of fireflies, the Perseid event is like the finale of a Fourth of July fireworks display. But for any number of reasons—cloudy skies for the most part, and the light pollution one experiences living close to cities—they came and went without much ado. Truly a pity since, according to astronomical forecasts, this year’s event was supposed to have been especially impressive, a “once in a decade outburst” that was seen in the southern hemisphere as well. (Read more about the Peseids here.)

I initially became excited over this phenomenon the summer I graduated

Evie, aka Dopus Dogimus, in the pool

from high school (ancient history by now), and I remember the awe and excitement of seeing them for the first time, as if I’d made some sort of unique discovery. It was a cool, mid-August night and my childhood pal, my beloved mutt Shadow, and I were sitting on one of the huge boulders at the foot of the driveway at my parents’ home in North Stamford (no light pollution there amid the trees far from city lights). We stretched out on the rock, soaking up the last warmth of the day, me on my back, Shadow in his sphinx-like doggy pose, and gazed up at the clear, starry sky. The sight was unexpected, with one “shooting star” after another, sometimes multiple streaking lights at once. Over the next few nights, Shadow and I made a point to return to our rock. On one night, I stopped counting after more than a hundred in less than an hour.

When my kids were small, I would rouse them—and my husband—from their beds at around midnight when the meteor showers were at their height. We'd lie on chaise lounges or beach blankets in the back yard and stare up at the sky and wait. But here in Central Connecticut, the sky was never quite as bright or as clear as it was in those earlier years. After much mumbling and grumbling on the part of my progeny and hubby—they were bored or tired, or both—we’d call it quits, usually without seeing a single one.

And so it’s been for the last 25-plus years. On an occasional August night, I’ve seen one or two, at most a handful, but in my back yard I have yet to see the Perseid the way I remember during that magical night when I was eighteen. (Luckily, my life hasn’t been completely bereft, as they are particularly exquisite over the Great Paconic Bay on the East End of Long Island, where my husband grew up, or along the Connecticut River east of here.)

I’ve also found a place for the meteor showers of August in my writing. Along with fireflies, which I’ve used in two books, the Perseids make an appearance in Courting the Devil, book two of “The Serpent’s Tooth” historical series, in which my heroine, Anne, experiences their awe and wonder in much the same way I did, way back when, among the trees with my old dog Shadow.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh's Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her The Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon.

Homage to the Firefly

 by Kathy Fischer-Brown

Well here it is, July 30^th…again. Here in Connecticut we’re smack dab in the midst of an extended heat wave (yesterday the heat index reached 103 F). I’ll be out with one of the dogs on our “walkies” around the block when a neighbor invariably asks with a big sweaty grin as he pauses from his mowing, “Hot enough for ya?” My answer, usually, is that I don’t mind the heat and find it preferable to freezing my butt off during our overly long, cold New England winters. No, I never complain about the heat. Not that I enjoy peeling myself from the chair I’m sitting in, or having my glasses fog up when I move from the outdoors to the air-conditioned inside (or vice versa), it’s just that summer happens to be my favorite season.

What, really, is there not to like about summer? The trees are in full leaf, flowers are in bloom, and our garden is producing zucchinis, peppers, tomatoes, and herbs faster than we can eat them. The backyard pool has been open since before Memorial Day and Tim, my husband, and Evie, our mutant springer spaniel, take advantage of a refreshing dip throughout the day. It’s a lazy time of year, a time for taking things a little slower, especially when outside playing ball with the mutant. It’s a time of glowing skies long after sunset, of sitting on the back deck with a good read on my Kindle, a baseball game on the radio…and, my favorite spectator sport: firefly watching.

I can’t remember when I first fell in love with those sparkly little critters, but I have memories

from when I was six-or-so running across the lawn in bare feet as I tried to catch them in my hands. And then there was an Independence Day night some 25 years ago when the sounds of fireworks from the park across town seemed in sync with the flickering of hundreds—if not thousands—of those incandescent insects in our yard. Twelve years ago, after a grueling eight months of surgeries, treatment and recovery from breast cancer, I found myself enjoying a warm late spring evening on the deck with no other thought in my mind except to breathe in the night air and give thanks to whatever powers that be for being alive. As if in answer, and totally unexpected, fireflies—like so many stars—lit up the trees and shrubs and flickered over the grass, a simple reminder that life is good and beautiful. I actually cried from happiness.

The sad thing is that “firefly season” is short-lived. By this time, end of July, the most spectacular displays are over. A few stragglers—those late for the party—appear well past dark, sometimes no more than two or three at a time to signal their desire for a mate. And then, within an hour or so, the yard is dark and still, with only the sounds of crickets filling the night.

Over the years I’ve done some reading up on the Lampyridae family of insects, the winged beetle order Coleoptera. No, they’re not flies, and up close they’re probably among the ugliest creatures I’ve seen. There are over 2,000 species of fireflies in the world, but only a few have the ability to emit the yellow, green or pale blue glow we have here in the eastern U.S. According to scientists, the reaction in their bodies that produces their light (bioluminescence) is among the most efficient in that it is nearly all glow and almost no heat. The light comes from luciferin, a chemical in their abdomens that, when combined with oxygen, produces their characteristic glow.

Among the fireflies in my yard, I count four different varieties. There are the synchronistic pulsers, males which signal the females of the species that they’re ready to mate. The females generally lie low in the grass with their answering flicker. Streakers seem to be in a great hurry, maybe to a party in someone else’s yard. And then there are the seducers, cannibal fireflies that mimic the flash of the female to lure an unsuspecting male to his death.

Unfortunately, due to a host of factors such as pesticide use and light pollution, firefly populations are in decline over most of the planet. But not in my yard. We have the perfect combination of damp creek bed in a forested tract just beyond a stand of willows, where the females like to lay their eggs. The larva and even their eggs are known to produce a glow, protection from other critters that would otherwise find them distasteful, even poisonous. In some species, the larvae burrow underground, sometimes for years, before emerging in late spring.

As writers, we’re told to write about what we know, which is good advice, but only to a certain point. In my fantasy novel, The Return of Tachlanad, I found a place for my beloved fireflies (which you can see on the lovely cover by Michelle Lee). At first glance they appear to be the same flickering, flying creatures that light up my summer nights, but these guys have a whole other personality and a bit of magic.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh's Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her The Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon.