Downy Smells Like Love

She was up late. She always stayed up late. I suppose this was normal for a grandmother trying to keep up with caring for her five rambunctious grandchildren (three more would soon follow). My two brothers, two sisters and I were quite a handful. None of us older than five, we had boundless energy that would’ve probably exhausted women a third my grandmother’s age. I, at four years old, was easily the most kinetic. This might help explain why I never slept like normal kids. I would always stay up later than my siblings and watch Mammaw. She was the only other person up at this late hour. Pappaw went to bed and got up with the chickens.

Mammaw & Pappaw’s (this is what we called their home) was situated in rural Indiana, past a lot of cornfields and on an elevated patch of land that I would call a hill, except that it stretched out in a fairly flat manner for some distance before the ground would dimple. These 110 acres were well wooded with a variety of deciduous trees that would blush the landscape in autumn. Creeks were etched into the countryside and came in an assortment of shapes and sizes; the largest one we affectionately named Big Papa Creek. The pristine waters provided playful and refreshing relief during the sweltering summers. Mammaw & Pappaw’s, with all the farm animals and nature, was a wide-eyed little kid’s wonderland that stood in stark contrast to the city life in which we were too often left alone. And I liked contrast.

I had a special bond with Mammaw. Maybe it was because I kept vigil with her as she worked late at night? The country life was no easy existence. Age and hard labor had weathered Mammaw’s skin. It was soft and thin like most elderly people and lay loosely over a very solid frame. I would try to smooth the wrinkles from the supple skin on her arms and hands. Laying my cheek against it, I imagined it was my pillow. Her skin’s soft texture was contradicted by her Puritan work ethic and imposing physical strength, both necessitated by the times and place in which she lived.

There was always work to be done and never enough time in the day to do it all. That’s why Mammaw borrowed time from the night. Mostly, she would wash things at night. Dishes. Floors. Laundry. Laundry . . . was my favorite.

Mammaw washed using an antique wringer washer. It wasn’t an antique when she bought it, but like her, it had aged gracefully and was still up to the task; she saw no reason to abandon its usefulness just yet. The washer and dryer were located in an old house adjacent to the one we all lived in. This house had been there since before they had purchased the property. Made completely of wood, it sat on a foundation of blocks and smelled like a log cabin. My grandparents never tore it down, but instead chose to make use of it as a giant storage unit where they kept the deep freezers that preserved the many fruits and vegetable they grew, and the meat which they butchered yearly. It was also the perfect home for the washer and dryer because it was just several yards from the backdoor, down the walkway.

I used to follow Mammaw out there late at night to keep her company. I would watch her meticulously and methodically go through her routine of checking the pockets, turning the clothes inside out, and stamping them down into the running machine with a clean wooden stick that had been rendered rather pallid from its years of duty in detergent and bleach. I would gaze as she would literally run these garment through the wringer, being ever-so-careful not to catch her fingers between its crushing rollers. She would never let me stand too close because she worried that I would “lose a finger.”

She would transfer the clothing to these large stainless steel tubs of rinse water to which she would add Downy fabric softener. I loved Downy! Mammaw said it smelled April fresh. But to me it smelled like love.

After the clothes had soaked for a while, she’d run them through the wringer again. Then she’d put them in the dryer and start the cycle. This was my favorite part. The dryer exhaust blew through an aluminum conduit that ran through the old house wall and protruded out from the building about two feet. I would run outside and pull this heavy metal lawn chair—rust-freckled, covered with flaking red paint—around the old house and position it right in front of the dryer exhaust. I would sit there and let the warm air wash over me, caressing me in the scent of Downy. The steady hum of the dryer would sing me to sleep. I especially loved it when the night was cold because the warm dryer air would create a contrast that would raise goosebumps on my skin. I loved contrasts.

After she had finished the laundry for the night, which was usually around 3 a.m., she would softly pick me up out of the chair so as not to wake me. But I always knew she was doing it; I just never told her. I wanted her to carry me into the house and put me to bed. I loved the closeness. And the best part came when she tenderly laid me in the bed and covered me up. She did this by tossing the blanket into the air and letting it gently glide down. As I peered through my eyelashes, it seemed like an angel’s feather floating down on me. This action would generate a mystical breeze as it came to alight upon me. Wafts of clean air scented with Downy would effortlessly fill my nostrils. Mammaw would tuck me in carefully. Downy smelled like love.

One particularly cold winter night, I caused quite a commotion. Departing from my normal routine, I had fallen asleep before Mammaw started the laundry. She had just placed the last load in the dryer and had come into the house to watch the news. I awakened and slipped out the back door to see if she was in the old house washing. But before I left, I grabbed the feather bed and dragged it out the door with me. I never understood why they called it a feather bed and not a feather cover. It was roughly the dimensions of a sleeping bag but was lined with feathers. My young mind didn’t understand the terminology, but I knew it was exceptionally warm, so it was going with me.

It was really dark that night. With no street lamps for at least 20 miles, the only illumination came from the pale Midwestern moon as it cast a soft warm hue over our snow-covered backyard. Down the walkway I went, and since the lawn chair was already in position and had been preheated by the sweet-smelling dryer exhaust, I bypassed going into the old house to look for Mammaw and just crawled up into the chair, cocooning myself in the feather bed. In no time, I had been rocked fast asleep by the dryer’s lullaby.

Tranquility would give way to turmoil as my panicked grandmother discovered I was missing from my bed. She upended the house in her frantic search for me. She was sure I had frozen to death as she came hysterically running out the backdoor. Snow had speckled my sleeping head, but I was snug and secure beneath the warm down-filled blanket. Like always, she gently carried me into the house, this time with tears flowing down her high cheek bones. And just like always, I feigned sleep so she would nuzzle me in the Downy-scented covers on my bed.

I miss the country. I now live in a quiet residential area somewhere in suburbia. Often, I take walks late at night; I especially like them when it is cold out (I love contrasts). As I make my way up the empty streets of my dimly-lit neighborhood, every once in a while I will catch a waft of Downy coming from someone’s dryer exhaust. The smell is unmistakable. As I pause and my eyes close, I inhale deeply. For a fleeting moment, I am enraptured by Mammaw’s warm ethereal embrace. I don’t know if love has a scent. But for me, Downy smells like love.

© 2008 Nathan/StealthyDarky