Mangles – Guest Post by Felicity Sidnell Reid…

Linguistic Tangles

Angle, ingle

Bangle, bungle

Dangle, dingle,

Gargle gurgle

Jingle jungle

Mangle, mingle

Single!

Tangle tingle

Wangle

Wrangle—wrinkle?

Reading a piece of memoir recently, I was surprised by a sentence which made no sense. It ran: “Those were the days of ringers. My mother used one for many years.” My immediate frivolous thought linked ringers to bells. And a rush of nostalgia left me mournful as I remembered the bells of my youth, part of a lost soundscape that contributed to the special taste of Sundays and festivals. However, I couldn’t imagine the writer’s mother finding a use for a bell ringer and certainly not over many years.

Luckily the next sentence brought me back to earth and reminded me that reading sentences, divorced from their context, is a trap that should be avoided. So it was washing day was it? And a wringer washer, though a great improvement on hand wringing, was not as efficient as the spin dryers which were soon to become the norm.

Thinking about wringer washers brought to mind a long-suppressed incident from the days when I too used one and my preschool daughter had insisted on watching me wrangle the soaking wet contents out of the washer and through the wringer. Standing on a chair, she promised not to touch anything; but as I fed the last part of a heavy curtain into the rubber rollers, she put out her hand to help…. Luckily I was using the widest setting for the rollers and though horrified to see her hand and then her wrist disappear, I was able to turn the newly monstrous contraption off. And she was fine—her chubby little arm slightly pink after its massage—though her mother was left wondering how many more bungles she would make and near disasters she was likely to experience before her brood grew up, or she had a heart attack.

My Grandmother, on the other hand, carried the marks of a tangle with a wringer all her life or so she said, showing us children her crooked middle finger and forbidding us to even approach her mangle. This was not so much a wringer as a press. Its purpose was not to mangle in any destructive sense but to remove the water and the wrinkles from carefully folded wash before it dried. Hers was an iron construction painted dark green, with wooden rollers and a large circular hand crank on its side. Tall and stately it stood in the scullery opposite the copper, heated by gas, both waiting for a washing day that never to my knowledge arrived. Grandma sent the sheets, table cloths, shirts and towels to the laundry and boiled small cotton and linen items in a large tub on her gas stove. Woollens were washed by hand in special soap. Those too, were the days of wooden pegs and clothes lines, from which on still days the washing dangled, and on windy ones tangled.

The older I get, the more words become something I want to hold on to. Maybe because recalling the right word, as anyone of a certain age will know, sometimes sets one off on a circuitous journey seeking an alternative to a forgotten term. But also because words and their sounds can open up lost memories of an earlier life, enrich our experience of the present and indicate our tangled feelings about the future. So let’s celebrate the difference between wringers and ringers and rejoice in the many glories of speech.

Felicity Sidnell Reid

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12 thoughts on “Mangles – Guest Post by Felicity Sidnell Reid…

  1. Your story brought to mind the ‘wash-house’ in my Grandmother’s garden in the village of Coupar Angus where we grew up. It was a stone-built building separate from the house. I remember watching my mother extract sheets from the boiler. She taught me how to take the two ends and fold them with her to just a lesser width than the wooden rollers of the mangle. She fed the end in and heaped the folded end on my side. I turned the handle of the mangle and made sure that the sheet fed in smoothly. The tighter she adjusted the top screw, the drier the sheets came out at her end but the harder my job to turn the handle. We called my job “ca’ing the mangle”. (Ca’ is Scots for ‘to drive’.) My mother assured me that I was a “guid ca’er!”. I took pride in the work and in her compliment.
    It is something to aspire to being a “guid ca’er” in life.
    Thanks for the memories, Felicity.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. What a story! Hope the kitten has a long and unexciting like after that.Actually I think those wringer washers were responsible for a huge amount of social guilt as I know so many people have stories about how they or their children had encounters with wringer washers.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I remember my grandmother’s mangle too. It was just as you describe. I wonder what happened to all those old mangles? Dolly tubs, possers and grating soap, too. I also remember her getting her first electric washing machine. The wringer on to looked tiny after the old mangle, but she was delighted not to have to turn the heavy crank.
    Thank you for bringing the memories back.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. My mother told the story for years of how I, as a toddler, bathed the kitten and started to feed it tail first through the mangle… The kitten was fine.
    My own first washing machine had an electric mangle and, at the time, we lived in one of the ‘street houses’ where laundry would hang house to house above the road. The electric mangle did save on ironing, though, if you used it right 😉

    Liked by 4 people

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