Wash Day

It was wash day here when I snapped this picture a few days ago, just like Monday has been on this block since before I was born. Before automatic machines existed in most homes to wash and (Heaven forbid!) dry our clothes, ladies too old before their time rubbed the dirty spots against wash boards, wrung out each piece by hand or with wringer rollers, and hung it on a clothesline to flap in the breeze and dry in the sun. That was Monday. Every Monday. There was no question about when the wash would be done. If one's lines were empty, it would be scandalous unless the grapevine which operated very well here had already established an illness or some other valid reason for why the wash in that house wasn't being done when it was supposed to be.

How much of our lives we spend doing what others expect us to do for no good reason except, "That's how it's always been done. " I like to think that riding the cycle helps me to break free of thinking inside the box - somebody else's box with its rigid walls that stand simply because nobody dares to ask, "Why?" Okay, maybe riding a scooter doesn't make me the world's toughest rebel, but it makes me more of my own person than I'd dared to be for much of my life.

I plan to ride as much as I can, for as long as I can. And I just might do my wash on a day other than Monday. So there!