The Real Washwoman

Getting ready for Christmas? If you’d like to try a different Christmas story this year, my latest release should fit the bill. I write historical, but this one isn’t historical, although it’s about a woman who lives in a past lifestyle. I write romance, but this one isn’t a romance, although it is a story of love. The love of neighbors. Of strangers. Of a mother for her children. Of two women from different cultures who love God.

In The Washwoman’s Christmas, a newly-wed travels deep into the South Carolina countryside to prepare a house for sale and befriends an unusual woman who prefers to live in a lifestyle of seventy years ago, much to her children’s disapproval. The younger woman, Amanda, unburdens her secret fears and suspicions that threaten her relationship to her husband and to God. But as the story unfolds, both Amanda and Claudie Mae, the washwoman, will need each other this Christmas.

As one of my reviewers said, everyone needs a Claudie Mae in their life. So true. I was inspired to write this story by the washwoman of my childhood who gave me an appreciation of the simple things of life and the importance of humility.

Back in the Deep South of the fifties, affluent families had a live-in maid of African-American descent. Those who lived in the country, like my family, had a woman come in periodically to help. Our washwoman would come once a week to do the wash for our large family. I was about five or six at the time. She probably was a part of the family earlier than that, but I can’t remember.

I hounded her every move, trying to help, but actually just to hear her commentary on everything. And her wonderful laughter. She never shooed me away like all the bigger people in my family. I was the youngest by nine years. Maybe because she had two boys and enjoyed spending time with a little girl for a change, but for whatever reason, she indulged my childish requests with glee. She set up my own wash tub (actually an aluminum bucket) for me to wash my doll’s clothes right alongside her. She even set up a bigger tub and a pulley system so I could draw water out of my “well.”

She exposed me to black folk culture in the best way possible, and unwittingly, she inoculated me against the distortions of the prejudiced white culture of that day.

Above all, she taught me God loves all His children equally. She’d pat my chest and say something like, “Everybody has a soul inside ‘em. Don’t matter how little you are, that soul can hold as much love as big people.”

And yes, her name was Claudie Mae.

Has anyone from your childhood had a lasting influence in your life? Please share with us in the comments.