08. Fontane Vecchie – The washhouse
I liked going to the washhouse because we always had each other’s company there. Some women arrived very early in the morning, even at five, when it was still dark. They wanted to be the first to wash clothes in the clean water that had accumulated overnight. Some came with mules — wet bedsheets were heavy, and the way back was uphill. There were never enough clotheslines, and sometimes they argued over space.
I loved listening to the women talk. At the washhouse, they felt free to say anything — even to talk about their domineering husbands. It was full of voices. They told stories about what was happening in Vallebona, about families. News spread fast. That’s where the saying “Sta chi a l’è sciurtia d’in sa ciappa da funtana” comes from — “This news came from someone washing at the fountain.” It means that the women had already talked about it before the news even reached the town.
I would sit in my little corner and listen to everything. It was fun.
Their hands stayed in the water for hours, but they never froze — not even in winter — because the spring water was always the same temperature.
I remember that in those days, people didn’t say “pregnant woman” because it was considered shameful. Women going out — even just to the washhouse — wore wide dresses that crossed in front to hide their belly.
I enjoyed it so much that sometimes I’d put clean socks and underwear in the basin just to have an excuse to go. Women didn’t have their own spaces like men had bars. The washhouse was their place — a meeting point full of energy. Sometimes they even sang together. It was beautiful.
Washing was hard work. They beat their husbands’ heavy corduroy trousers with wooden sticks — such loud, scary thuds. As a child, I used to think: “Maybe they’re pretending to beat their husbands.” Maybe it helped them vent a little.
Nothing was wasted. Even a sliver of soap was precious. Sometimes it slipped into the tub and disappeared in the soapy water. It was hard to find. Back home, the husband would shout. So, the women kept a long stick — sharpened at the end — just for that purpose: to fish out the soap. It wasn’t easy; it kept slipping away. They helped each other search.
Back then, everything was precious.
