October’s promise, fulfilled
Sometimes it’s hard to figure out the best way to attack a problem.
A few weeks ago, when the sun was out and October was its lovely self, my daughter and I spent a Sunday afternoon doing the things that needed to be done in order to close up a summer cottage.
There is, of course, the necessity to bring home the perishables and/or things that will freeze and/or explode in an unheated building. This generates any number of classic questions such as: “ Why do we have three bottles of catsup?” or: “Does anyone know what this stuff is in the plastic container?” the inevitable: “Should I throw this out or cook it?” or even: “OMG, is something moving in that jar? Yuck!”
I always bring home most of the basic provisions that I brought out in early summer. What did people eat if they ignored my well-planned basic menus? The breakfast sausage and chicken thighs were still where I left them in the freezer sometime in July. Did anyone read my recipe for chocolate pudding taped to the front of the cupboard? Obviously not, since the same three cans of evaporated milk and cocoa I brought were still in that cupboard.
My menu for October is always supplemented by what I bring home from camp.
While I was pondering the mysteries of foodstuffs, my daughter was stripping the five beds. She volunteered to take it all home, wash it and bring it back, but that has been my job for more than 35 years. With her boys she has enough laundry for a small nation and doesn’t need all of that extra work. Me? I have cats.
Along with Lord knows how many towels, and what a raggedy collection they are, my work was cut out for me. Actually, I enjoy the strategy of dealing with things like that and, within a few hours I did have all of the towels, sheets and pillowcases and one quilt washed and folded, ready for their winter naps in metal cupboards at camp. That left the comforters.
I washed one and put it in the dryer. I dried it three times, dutifully adding four large wool balls and two tennis balls in order to facilitate drying the behemoth bedspread evenly. That did not work. It was still wet in the middle. It did seem like it rolled itself into what could be described as a comforter’s version of the fetal position, thereby declaring its refusal to dry. OK, I thought I would then hang it over the small dryer rack that is always up next to the washer. But … I have four more to wash and dry and one dryer rack and no more room. It would take days to get all of this done. I could feel a trickle of panic somewhere near my neck.
Visons of darkness and smelly mold came to mind. Now, how did I manage this in the past?
Perhaps I was getting tired or running out of brains. Was this a gingko biloba moment? Who knows?
Then it came to me! I’ll go to the laundromat. What a good idea, I thought. Well, truthfully, it was a suggestion from someone else. So, one by one, I loaded four comforters back into the car and headed to the laundromat on Main Street where the gigantic washers and dryers perfect for this job live.
Now, having to use a cane to get from most anywhere to anywhere else, transporting bunk-sized comforters from the car to the laundromat became my first challenge. I guess that I sort of gave in to the idea that it would be one at a time. There is a special place in my psyche where I silently curse the ortho surgeon for this situation, blaming him for all the extra work that using a cane requires. Grumble…
My silent oath was quickly shortened by the kindness of Jo, the Captain of the laundromat.
I use the word Captain because she runs a tight and very clean ship. Jo stepped up immediately and helped me with the comforters. She put them in the washers and even helped with adding the detergent. Heck, I didn’t even need to be there. But, if I weren’t, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of a conversation with Captain Jo. The day was brightening again. Mold was a fading fear.
Like so many I meet, Jo is retired from an interesting and important job, one that could, on occasion, be stressful.
“After I cleaned and recleaned the house, read some books and finished chores that I had put off for years, I began to look for something else, something that would get me out of the house, something for which I had the skills,” Jo said. “I can do laundry. I can clean. I am organized. I like people.”
And the Marcellus laundromat filled the bill.
“It’s only 20 hours a week, but I enjoy every one,” she said. “There’s enough to keep me busy and so many warm and friendly people to talk to. I love it.”
We sat companionably over one of the tables and talked of work, grandchildren, doing things that had meaning and the need that we all have – to connect.
You know how there are people that you’ve only just met but have known for a long time. Well, Jo is one of them.
She folded the now-dry comforters and delivered them back to my car. What more could I have wished for?
What a delightful outcome to a yearly chore and momentary madness.
I was thinking about how our cottage is a place for people to gather and share, and how places like the laundromat, depending on who is there, serve that very same set of functions. The library, a casual coffee after church, hanging around the hardware store for no reason except to visit … so many opportunities to bond. Maybe it’s the anthropologist talking, or just someone who had four comforters to wash and dry. Whatever the reason, as the year winds down, October’s promise held this unexpected surprise. I drove home smiling.
A small timeless thing – closings and openings and connection – in a Marcellus laundromat.
Ann Ferro is a mother, a grandmother and a retired social studies teacher. While still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up, she lives in Marcellus with lots of books, a spouse and a large orange cat.
