Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part Two

     When I received the habit and was told that, as a novice, I would have to take on the duty of laundress, I was at first horrified. The thought of washing clothes and linens for 28 people sounded like a nightmare to me, surpassed in horror only by the thought of cooking for 28. My novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, assured me that it was a very popular job among the sisters, mainly because it afforded the laundress much time alone in a separate building; it was very quiet (the sound of the machines notwithstanding) and the laundress could spend a lot of time reading between loads. The delicious prospect of solitude finally sold me on the idea.

     Nuns don't have a vast wardrobe: each sister has two everyday habits (changed weekly), several cotton undershirts (changed daily, because the habit is only changed weekly), a work habit (only worn when doing heavy work, like painting or clearing tree limbs after a storm -- and how often can that be?), a special habit that is worn only on Christmas, Easter, and the day of profession (it looks exactly like the everyday habit, but is made of a slightly fancier grade of cotton/poly), two petticoats, two nightgowns, two work aprons; plus socks and unmentionables, which are washed in personal net swish bags for convenience as well as privacy. That is the extent of whatever each sister wears on her person. But when you add to that every week: bathtowels, bed linens, cleaning rags, kitchen aprons, kitchen towels (which number in the dozens), and take into account that each habit has three parts (excluding cap and veil, which each sister washes herself) -- you've got a lot o' laundry!

     Monday morning is the busiest, as this is when habits are washed and "spotted," and for spotting, the laundress is aided by the other novices, postulants, and novice mistress. Though the sisters are responsible for taking spots out of their own habits, the Monday morning team checks all the habits again after the laundress washes and dries them, removing even the tiniest pinhead-sized spots with a wide array of chemicals found in dry cleaning businesses.

     Tuesday morning, the laundress rises extra early because Tuesday is steam press day. The monastery possesses one professional steam press, which to my mind resembles a large panini press in the shape of an ironing board. In fact, I often wondered if it could be used to grill enough sandwiches for the whole community's dinner -- 28 panini in one fell swoop! But I digress. The laundress must rise extra early in order to light the steam press' pilot light. This is not as easy as it may sound. The pilot light is in a small utility closet, very close to the floor, hidden underneath and behind various pipes. The laundress, armed with her handy long-reach torch lighter, all but turns herself upside down to find the pilot, even using a hand mirror if need be. Once lit, it takes the steam press about 20 minutes to heat to the proper temperature.

     Pressing the habits is done in shifts: tunics, then scapulars, then capes. The first sister on pressing duty comes in at around 5.20, giving her half an hour before Morning Prayer to press as many tunics as possible, hopefully getting most if not all of them done so that the second sister, who takes over immediately after Morning Prayer, can move on to the scapulars, getting as many of those done as she can before Mass, so that the third and final sister, taking over after breakfast, can get to and finish the capes before Midmorning Prayer. After Midmorning Prayer, all the novices and postulants, and the novice mistress, come into the laundry to fold scapulars and capes. The tunics are hung on rolling racks. Folding must be done and everything taken to the seamstress sister's workroom by Midday Prayer. The seamstress sister puts all the habits in order, according to laundry number, in the long hallway closets where they may be picked up by their owners by Saturday evening.

     Now, you may be wondering why, if the fresh habits aren't picked up till Saturday evening, they have to be washed and pressed by Tuesday midday. I often wondered that myself. I do know that the steam press, which uses a great deal of power, can only be used one day a week for only a few hours (in the morning, so that the temperature in the laundry won't be so unbearable). But why Tuesday? Beats me. I tried not to ask too many questions. But getting all the hardest work over with early in the week makes the rest of the week very easy for the laundress. After Tuesday, she can revel in all that promised solitude between loads of linens, kitchen towels and swish bags. And believe you me, I did.

Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part One

     Now that I was a novice and beginning my canonical year -- that is, the first year of the novitiate -- there were new jobs I had to learn. One was laundress. I don't know how laundry is handled in other houses, but in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, one sister, usually a novice or a sister in temporary vows, does the laundry for the entire community. To make her job somewhat easier, laundry is divided into categories: nightgowns and habits (including petticoats, but not caps or veils), bed and bath linens, cleaning rags, and swish bags. Swish bags are net bags in which are washed all intimate items, keeping yours separate from everyone else's. Each category is given its own wash day, but swish bags -- because of the nature of their contents -- could be washed on any day. 

     Also making the job easier are the appliances. In the large laundry room, which shares a separate building with the main storage room and the hobby room, there are three washing machines: the main washer, huge, computerized, and formidable in its terrible efficiency; a regular machine of the sort found in every average home; and the old manual washer with its partner, the extractor.

     I must devote some few lines to these last two appliances, because I had never seen the likes of them before, nor do I expect to see them again. First of all, the manual washer is used only when in a hurry and the big computerized washer is occupied. It stands taller than me, is of solid steel, and has a glass porthole door. Detergent is deposited in a small chute at the top. At the side are two levers which open and close valves inside the barrel, one for hot water, the other for cold. When the valves are opened, the barrel fills with water, the temperature of which is determined by your manipulation of the two levers. Since it takes a moment or two for the barrel to fill with the desired amount of water (depending on the size of your load), I would usually try to multi-task and attend to something else in the meantime. Once, however, I completely forgot I had left the valves open, only to be rudely reminded of the fact by the deluge gushing out the porthole and onto the cement floor. I was later assured that I was by no means the first laundress to flood the laundry, and it is for that very reason the floors are bare cement with a very large drain grid set near the manual washer.

     When the water level is correct and the valves safely closed, you then push a button to start the barrel agitating and to release the detergent. The agitation will stop on its own a few moments later, at which point you may start it again for further agitation, depending on how dirty the items are, or you may drain all the soapy water and refill the barrel with fresh rinse water. When all this is done and the last of the rinse water drained out, and since the washer has no extracting mechanism, it is then time to use the washer's partner, the extractor.

     The best way to describe the extractor is to liken it to a giant salad spinner; in fact, I'm convinced this is how the idea of the salad spinner was conceived. The extractor is a large, round steel tub into which you heave your water-weighted laundry, taking the greatest care to arrange it evenly around the center cone. The laundry loaded, you clamp the lid shut and turn the machine on, whereupon the inner tub begins its hurricane-force whirl. (If you have not arranged the laundry evenly, the extractor will wobble violently and very noisily, and threaten to catapult itself through the roof.) Water drains through a pipe and into a hole in the floor; you watch for the steady stream to reduce to a trickle, then to a slow drip, then you turn the extractor off. But wait! Do not open the lid until the inner tub has come to a dead stop and all is silent within, if you value your hands and all ten fingers!
     After my introduction to these two quaint contraptions, I gave fervent thanks for the fancy computerized washer and the gargantuan dryer.
    

    

  

Is This the Monastery or the Military?

     When a woman aspires to be a contemplative nun, she has to pass through three phases after entering the monastery: postulancy, novitiate, and temporary vows. The length of each of these varies from order to order and even, to a slight degree, from house to house. For Dominicans, postulancy usually lasts 9-12 months; novitiate, 2 years; and temporary vows (renewed every year), 3 years. Any or all of these phases may be extended if need be. During all this time, the woman is free to change her mind and return to secular life. Likewise, her superiors may ask her to leave, if they feel she is not a right fit for that particular community or that particular order, or if they determine that she does not have a monastic vocation after all. Some women start out in one order, then find they may be better suited to another. If, however, she does pass the three phases successfully in the same house, at the end of them she makes her solemn profession (final vows), and she is—at long last!—a nun for life. So you see, it really takes a long time and much testing, formation, and discernment to become a nun. No plunging in with blinders on!    

     Even if a woman leaves a certain monastery, she may re-enter it. One of the sisters in Lufkin left after she had already taken temporary vows. She went to Rome to pursue a Doctorate in theology, which she achieved. But while there, she felt called to return to monastic life, asked to re-enter the Lufkin monastery, and was re-accepted—but she had to start all over again! Happily, she persevered, and just a few years ago celebrated the Silver Jubilee of her solemn profession.

     Postulancy began for me, as with all postulants, with taking care of practical details. When I entered I of course had rid myself of most of my possessions, but I did bring many books and CDs that I thought would be useful to the community, plus pajamas (you don't get "regulation" nightgowns till you receive the habit and become a novice), and intimate wear (I love that euphemism). I had to take inventory of everything, and the list was filed away. This way, if I did leave, I would know exactly what to take back with me. If I had stayed and taken vows, all my things (except, of course my intimate wear) would have become community property. In addition, I was given tags with my laundry number on them which I had to sew onto all my clothes and linens. My seamstress skills being limited to sewing on buttons, it took me several days to stitch all those tags on securely. A sister's laundry number is also used as a sort of ID when signing up for confession or volunteer duties.

     A postulant learns the proper way to do everything—or I should say, the community's way of doing everything—from making her bed to mopping to folding laundry. It's a lot like being in the army! Everything is done according to regulation. For one thing, it's an exercise in obedience, something every human being must learn, but is particularly important for religious (and soldiers, for that matter) whether they be contemplative or active. For another thing, it's simply good for your own discipline; you become more conscious of taking care in everything you do, large or small. In the world, it's known as "taking pride in your work." But for religious, it's doing your best for the glory of God, even if it's folding a bedsheet.

     And speaking of bedsheets—!

     That mystery of mysteries—how to fold the fitted sheet—was finally solved for me. Never mind that folding bedsheets, be they flat or fitted, is always done in the monastery with a partner (much faster, more efficient, and less fatiguing on the arms); I learned the best basic method for folding those  confounded fitted sheets (it's all about tucking one corner into the opposite corner), an accomplishment made even sweeter when I managed to fold them with the laundry number tag showing, which is really the most important thing.

     Another thing I learned to do properly was mop the floor. (They use old-fashioned rag mops.) The basic motion is side to side,  letting your weight shift accordingly,  working your way backwards, keeping the strokes not much wider than your shoulders, and your elbows close to your sides. Believe me, this method really saves your back. No pushing and pulling the mop in and out in front of you!

     I think the best training of all was how to wash dishes, pots, and pans. Fie on you if you leave the tiniest speck of food on even the outside of a pot or the underside of a plate, or—horror of horrors—between the tines of a fork! All traces of food must be scoured and scraped off before the item goes into the steaming hot soap water to be sterilized. To this day, I can't bear to wash dishes in soap water that has bits of food floating around in it.

     If all of this sounds a bit obsessive-compulsive, I can only say that it taught me an invaluable thing: give your absolute best even to the smallest, most mundane task, and try to do it with love. It's all for God's glory.