Washing
The charming fixer-upper Clayton and I purchased proved to be just this side of a money pit. Still we loved it and shortly after each angry outburst and harsh expletive one of us could be found tenderly running our hands across the crown molding, marble mantle or mahogany banister wearing an expression most often found on that of doting parents. What were the builders thinking, so long ago, to take such care with craftsmanship while ignoring the practical? Not a shred of insulation or closet space.
Our very first winter was spent as close to the fire as possible without risking being set ablaze. The old dragon of a furnace had groaned, spit a feeble black dust and promptly died. We often joked that it was the finest tent we had ever camped in.
The only location in the entire house that could accommodate a modern washer and dryer was a dark, damp corner of the cellar. I despised it but was too stubborn to relinquish any of the laundry duty so down the narrow creaking steps I’d descend with a basket of wash and fresh curses on my lips. Heaven help us all if the load became unbalanced in the spin cycle and I had to drop whatever I was doing to race down the steps, stop the machine and reposition soaking wet sheets and towels. No sailor ever let loose with more colorful language.
The very first time I smelled rosewater and glycerin I didn’t think too long on it. The scent was instantly recognizable and visions of high collars and pressed linen, lace- edged hankies filled my head. But that happened so fast I went about my chores and dismissed it. Weren’t brain tumors sometimes known to cause phantom smells? Ah well, too much to do. In a brief moment the cellar returned to normal – smelling strongly of mildew and raw earth. Paradise for beetles, crickets and enormous cockroaches.
It must have been the following week that I heard a single, sharp chime the instant the aroma hit my nose. There I was alone under the bare bulb, measuring out washing powder when I was stopped cold by a fear I couldn’t explain. Had I been one to whistle I surely would have launched into a happy trill. Instead I spoke aloud, in a voice I hoped sounded light and confident, a single word – hello. I felt incredibly stupid but I was scared and I wanted out of there fast.
The rest of the day was spent upstairs in the warmth of my sunlit home. When Clayton returned from work that evening I begged him to retrieve the wash. The explanation I gave was pathetic; a giant bug had it in for me. He bought this nonsense and gallantly transferred the load from washer to dryer and just before bed brought it up. I’m not sure what exactly made me lie but I had the feeling I was on to something extraordinary and if I were patient enough and could summon the courage I’d be rewarded. After all, hadn’t I always invited a chance such as this?
The next morning I gathered a small load of delicates and made my way down; at the foot of the steps I paused and gave a friendly ‘hello’ and went about the wash. Nothing. No tinkling of bells, no faded roses yet I knew someone or something would reveal itself in it’s own good time. And like a gift when I returned a while later I was treated to the chime of three crisp notes and wafts of sweet perfume. I spoke into air far more thick than thin. “Thank you.”
prevention is kinder than destruction. each year over six million healthy dogs, cats, puppies and kittens are killed as surplus. remember: neuter, spay and don't let them stray!