Old Floors & Perfect Sheets
Funny what triggers a memory. Today my wife and I walked through a refurbished historic home in a neighboring city. The house is old but she looks good, the owners/refurbishers took great care in keeping with the time-period in which she was built; 1911. The wood floors, clean and varnished, would squeak as you walked across it as if you had stepped on a part of her that caused a bit of discomfort, or maybe its just her way of saying that it’s good to have someone who listens to her again. I moved a pocket-door out of its hiding place and felt it slightly bind here and there. I offhandedly mentioned it needed work; the Realtor smiled and commented, “If you were a hundred years old you would need a little work too.” I think I would need a bit more than a little. As I walked through dinning room, just for an instant, I saw my grandmothers’ kitchen and a hint of cinnamon crossed my mind - then it was gone. I love old houses.
This evening my wife carted in a large handful of sheets and pillowcases into the living room and plopped them on the hassock in front of me. She has volunteered me to fold them since I, as she has eloquently put it, fold them better than she does. I pulled the sheets from their dryer induced embrace and quickly folded them into neat little rectangles, the “top” sheet quite crisper than the “bottom” sheet. When I am done I sat back down and my wife looked at the stack, “you fold them so much better than I do. How do you fold them so well?” I looked at the sheets. I guess it never occurred to me if I folded them well or not, but I explained why I fold them the way I do.
Once, when growing up, I noticed the sheets in the linen closet. Each one folded with such precision as to make it impossible to tell which is a “top” and which a “bottom.” I was a bit frustrated after picking two or three out and still did not find a bottom sheet. I asked my Mom how she could fold them so well. I vaguely remember an answer somewhat like “you just do.”
I have folded sheets for years, and in different ways. I now fold them in such a way that they are flat, and end up close to the same size. The bottom sheet is a bit fluffier, but not by much. I am not proud of my folding job. To me they look ragged and in disarray. Maybe, if I live long enough I will uncover a least one of my Mothers secrets: that of how to fold a bottom sheet.
Funny what triggers a memory: an old squeaky floor, or a poorly folded sheet. They are old memories from past times, but they are also in the present. For I will always fold sheets and try to duplicate the perfection of my Mother, and I will always walk across wooden floors and hope it hides a squeak here and there.
This evening my wife carted in a large handful of sheets and pillowcases into the living room and plopped them on the hassock in front of me. She has volunteered me to fold them since I, as she has eloquently put it, fold them better than she does. I pulled the sheets from their dryer induced embrace and quickly folded them into neat little rectangles, the “top” sheet quite crisper than the “bottom” sheet. When I am done I sat back down and my wife looked at the stack, “you fold them so much better than I do. How do you fold them so well?” I looked at the sheets. I guess it never occurred to me if I folded them well or not, but I explained why I fold them the way I do.
Once, when growing up, I noticed the sheets in the linen closet. Each one folded with such precision as to make it impossible to tell which is a “top” and which a “bottom.” I was a bit frustrated after picking two or three out and still did not find a bottom sheet. I asked my Mom how she could fold them so well. I vaguely remember an answer somewhat like “you just do.”
I have folded sheets for years, and in different ways. I now fold them in such a way that they are flat, and end up close to the same size. The bottom sheet is a bit fluffier, but not by much. I am not proud of my folding job. To me they look ragged and in disarray. Maybe, if I live long enough I will uncover a least one of my Mothers secrets: that of how to fold a bottom sheet.
Funny what triggers a memory: an old squeaky floor, or a poorly folded sheet. They are old memories from past times, but they are also in the present. For I will always fold sheets and try to duplicate the perfection of my Mother, and I will always walk across wooden floors and hope it hides a squeak here and there.
posted by G. Steven Nolte at 9:55 PM
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