Life On The Rez

Life On The Rez. II

LUCY



Lucille Ball had nothing on my sister and I.

One time while visiting my sister on the Grand Portage Indian Reservation we proved this theory. My sister was living with her husband and child in her mother-in-law’s residence. An unenviable position. It is hard enough for the average daughter-in-law to measure up to her spouse’s mother’s expectations, but my sister compounded this by being twenty years younger then her husband and being white.

Granny (her mother-in-law) decided to lie down for an afternoon nap. While she was napping, we decided to catch up on the laundry. Life on the reservation was hard. Poverty abound, and although it was the early nineteen eighties, conveniences were behind the times.

“Therese, get me the basket of clothes from the living room." My sister instructed. As I returned to the kitchen I saw my sister roll out a strange looking contraption from a storage closet. It looked like a white tub with four, three feet tall legs. There was an electronic cord and a hose attached. She plugged in the cord and began attaching the hose to the sink as I exclaimed,

“What the heck is that?”

“It’s a washing machine silly.”

She said this as if we had not grown up in the same household with all the latest modern equipment.

She sighed. “It is the best we have, and it does the job.” She brushed back a lock of wavy black hair behind her ear and continued, “Besides it beats the heck out of a washboard.”

I shrugged my shoulders and began loading the ancient cleaning apparatus. After loading, I turned to my sister and inquired,

“Where’s the laundry detergent?”

My sister’s green eyes widened.

“ Ahhh, opps, we are out.”

“You want me to run down to the trading post?”

“It’s closed. But I have an idea.” My sister said as she bent over and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. She pulled out a bottle of dish soap.

“Soap is soap right? If it can clean dishes, it should clean clothes just fine.”

Sounded good to me. So we poured some into the machine and turned it on. We then retreated to the living room, her to work on a sewing project, and me to play with my nephew. We heard the device agitating and gurgling a bit, and with naivety continued with our tasks. A short time later we went to check on the clothes, and low and behold, the kitchen was filled with bubbles. It was like a scene from a Lucy episode. It was hard to even locate the washer. Panic ensued with the thought of my sister’s mother-in-law coming out and confirming her view of my sister’s ineptitude.

We slipped and slid our way into the sudsy mess and grabbed some bowls from the cupboards. The bailing commenced. We would then run to the bathroom with the containers and fill the tub, rinsing the bubbles down the drain. We were soon soaked and were trying not to be loud. The absurdity of the situation, coupled with the fear of waking Granny, made it difficult not to break out in hysterical laughter. We managed to mop up the remaining mess with towels, just moments before Granny awoke from her rest.

Granny entered the kitchen. Behind her bottle cap thick glasses, her eyebrows arched. The floor sparkled clean and the air had a lemony fresh scent. I think that, along with our disheveled appearance, gave off the wrong impression.

“Oh wah, didn’t know you guy’s were going to scrub the floors, guess your good for something.”

I think that was the first time in my life I was quiet, probably cause I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing. Oh, and by the way the clothes came out clean too, but soap is not always the right soap. Lesson learned.