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Linsey-Woolsey
- Wayne State University Press
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45 Linsey-Woolsey Gettysburg, 1862 I was hanging clothes on the line: a working man’s hickory, the counterpane of a young wife, a child’s padding. I knew how to beat the offense— tea-stained linens only sun can cure— without killing the fiber. Not a tear. Not a rip. I lent each sheet the same care. Fair enough life I thought. My job was my own as I was my own. Some women had been snatched by night. I gave heed to the warnings. I hung the laundry early in the day, soaked (indoors) overnight. Had to. —a feed sack over the head no doubt— Beat soaped boiled rubbed rinsed (in bluing if white) wrung rinsed wrung dipped (starched) hung. Each load dirtier than the next. They knew what I was, saw through hair and flush profile of a Roman coin, sold me easily as white linen bought to set upon an ebon table. A soiled handkerchief in my mouth a hand at each arm, I kicked like only a mule can, they broke me the same. I was not my own. Heard the clothes flapping empty sleeves trails of dresses. ...