Laundry Day

Last week the PTO sponsored a Pioneer Days assembly. It was an interactive activity that the children adored because they could go from station to station, experiencing life just like 19th century pioneers.

Well, not exactly like the pioneers. It was as close as you can get when housed in the cafeteria of a somewhat rural school in the middle of the Mojave Desert, with air conditioning and plenty of adult help for the more difficult tasks, like carding wool. And there and no wild animals, infectious diseases, or sod houses close by.

For 45 minutes, three classrooms of children worked side by side, playing with authentic wood toys, making authentic dyed-pasta bead necklaces, shaving with authentic shaving brushes and real butter knives, panning for real fool's gold, and grinding real corn in an authentic grinder. There were no behavior problems the entire time. They waited patiently for turns at the grinder, yielding enough corn meal to make a mini-muffin, after much hard work. They gladly sifted their fruits of their efforts, over and over again.

The biggest hit, without a doubt, was the washboard and wringer. The kids took turns washing a towel and then putting it carefully through the wringer, only to wash it again. And again. If they weren't involved with the washing, they watched, eyes round and mouths agape - fully entranced by the whole process.

So, the next day I brought in a vintage washboard that has decorated my laundry room for several years, serving as a reminder that I must always be grateful for Maytag and Sears & Roebuck. I put the washboard in a plastic tub filled with soapy water and scrounged around for the one and only towel in the classroom.

I wasn't sure how they would react when faced with this little set-up, which I'd placed on an old wood table that was abandoned in the kindergarten yard years ago. The fact that they were enamored is putting it mildly. They vigorously scrubbed the towel against the rusty washboard, rocking the rickety table in the process.

Tricycles gleamed in the sun, unridden, while the children lined up to "wash" the towel. Jump ropes were forgotten and the play equipment sat abandoned once Raymond realized that his attempts to coax his buddies onto the slide was for naught. "Come on, guys!" he shouted hopefully. "I'm a superhero!"

Seeing that his friends would have none of it, Raymond got in line for a turn, only to become exasperated when the current washerwoman wouldn't relinquish the coveted spot. Calls of "hurry up!" soon became screeches, as each launderer pushed the bounds of kindergarten reason and washed until anarchy and chaos was threatening. I suggested that they count to 50. Might as well make it academic.

I don't know why I was so surprised at the popularity of the old washboard. These are the same kids who yawn at carefully constructed phonics lessons but "oooh" and "ahhhh" over my cleaning of the whiteboard. "Look! A rainbow!" they exclaim, as the dark ink drips down the board and changes into a plethora of inky paints and blend again to create more color spectacles. "Do it again!" they shout, convinced that one MORE squirt of the noxious whiteboard cleaner will yield another batch of drippy rainbow colors.

"Hurry UP!" they shout at each other, becoming impatient with the current washer person. "Hurry UP! TEACHER! Raymond is taking too long!"

"Count to 50," I reply serenely, thrilled with the spectacle of Raymond's look of complete wonderment and concentration as he vigorously rubs the soapy water along the old ridges of the washboard. I am secretly pleased with myself for thinking of this and happy that the accumulated dust is now swirling around in the tub.

More pushing ensues and Raymond flounces off when he can't convince his buddies to extend his turn to the count of 60. I am pleased that Raymond understands that 60 is ten more than 50.

This is the same group that laughs when I drop something and snickers at words like "underwear," "snot," "poop," and "naked."

They are belligerent with turn-takers who keep scrubbing after the count of 50. Almost as appalled as the saying of "bad words," which usually elicits repeated rounds of breathlessly excited tattling. For Kindergarten kids, "bad words" include "shut-up," which I declared off-limits early in the year, and "stupid," which loses its shock value around second grade.

When they reluctantly leave the washboard to return to the classroom, I notice there is a fringe benefit to all this scrubbing. For the first time all school year, my kids will go to the cafeteria with sparkling clean hands.