The Washing Shed

 

They are doing construction work on the washing shed. It is located next to the river which often is dry.

When I was first in Argelès a few decades ago, I was intrigued to see women using the large sinks inside to wash their clothes. They could use the clothes lines outside, although most of them took their clothes home to hang on lines outside their windows. Sometimes it felt as I was walking down the narrow streets under a canopy.

Even as recently as the pre-covid 20s, I would see women there. It was definitely older women, whom I called mamies (not to their faces), grandmothers who I would enjoy chatting with when we met on the street or the shops.

These same women would often put their chairs on the street outside their front doors and chat, sometimes watching grandchildren, sometimes mending or knitting, sometimes shelling peas or snapping beans for lunch. They also had a village bench where they would gather. 

The men, dubbed The Senators, had another bench.

One by one these women have disappeared. I watched as their energy was reduced, started using canes, although they still could carry their laundry from home to shed. Originally, they used wicker baskets but over the years these were replaced with the big plastic bags from the grocery store.

I wrote a poem a few years back that captured the moment.  In a way it is sad that tradition of the washing shed will disappear, but the daughters of the women, even those raised in the village now are working women and have washing machines and sometimes even dryers.

THE WASHING SHED

The washing shed cooks in the sun.

Women stand by soapstone sinks

scrubbing stains from clothes

as their grandmothers did.

The smell of bleach and soap

mingles with sweat.

They brush hair from their eyes.

Children play underfoot

                  as the river flows by.

 

They talk of Pierre beating Marie,

Sophie’s new job in Toulouse, Michel

cheating on Chantal, fresh garden

basil, the price of apricots.

Some own washing machines

white and shiny in lonely kitchens.

Better to carry baskets and powders

to the shed where gossip steals time

                as the river flows by.