Reflections - Wash, Rinse, Repeat . . . If Only
Stacked Laundry
At breakfast, August 23, clean clothes never entered my mind. I devoured a zucchini-carrot patty, Spence sipped black coffee, and our son Charlie ate a cheese omelet. We chatted about the fate of Geronimo, an alpaca with bovine tuberculosis in England.
Bing, bing, bing sounded in the bathroom.
“That’s an unusual sound for the washer.” I said. Sipping rooibos tea, I mentally reviewed the washer’s normal sounds. It clanked, ground, and roared. It never binged.
Charlie swallowed then checked on his third load of laundry. I’d encouraged him to use the Wells Wood washer-dryer—a deal giving him clean clothes and letting us see him at least once every three weeks.
“It’s flashing an error message,” he called from the bathroom.
I investigated. The Maytag flashed F4 E1, whatever that meant. Following the infinite monkey theorem, I hit buttons. The code disappeared. The door remained locked. I turned knobs. The machine stayed on but wouldn’t spin.
Holding my breath so I didn’t inhale the stench of fresh cat poop, I crawled over the litter box under the utility sink, reached through cobwebs behind the washer, and pulled the plug. After a minute, I replaced it. The washer door clicked to unlock.
“It's probably clean enough to dry.” Charlie tossed bed sheets into the dryer.
Monkeying hadn’t worked, but Carl had resuscitated the washer several times. I searched for C&A Appliance Repair’s phone number.
When Carl’s wife answered the phone, I gave her the code.
“I have no idea what that means, but I’ll write it down,” she said. “Carl’s awfully busy this week . . . I can squeeze you in on Friday afternoon at six.”
Friday would have been laundry day, but I could cope. “Great. Thank you.”
On Friday. Ande, our ambassador cat, met Carl at the front door. Ande sniffed while Carl slipped out of his loafers and into his slippers. I led the man and cat duo to the washer, explained the dilemma, and left saying, “Let me know if Ande gets in your way.”
“He’s fine.” Carl closed the door.
A half hour later, he and Ande found me peeling apples in the kitchen.
“The washer has two panels.” Carl counted on his fingers. “One controls the motor and water flow. The second controls everything else.” Carl glanced toward the bathroom. “The second panel needs to be replaced. But it’s costly . . . around a hundred seventy dollars.”
“I would spend at least a thousand to get a new machine.” I picked Ande up so that Carl could change his shoes without a cat nose in the way. “Order the part.”
The following Tuesday, Carl returned with the part. “I’ll put this in. We’ll see if it works.”
If?
He walked to the bathroom and shut the door. Ande sniffed Carl’s shoes then lay in front of the door. He twitched his ears while tools clinked, metal clanked, and Carl’s slippers rubbed against the tile floor.
The bathroom door squeaked open, and Carl lugged his gear to the great room where Spence checked his email to see if Ford had set a build date for the Maverick he’d ordered. I pulled the checkbook out of my purse.
“I made a mistake.” Carl ran his hand over his forehead. “I ordered the wrong part.”
Spence looked up from the computer. “That happens.”
Carl shifted the gear to his other hand. “I’ll order the other part tomorrow morning. It should come Thursday or Friday.”
We didn’t hear from Carl Thursday.
Friday, with only two pairs of underwear and Santa Claus socks in my dresser drawer, I answered the phone on the first ring.
“This is Amy from Medical Services,” said a cheery robot voice. Frustrated, I hung up.
Ring. ”Join the class action suit against Zantac.” Click.
Ring. “A prescription is ready for Janet Wells.” Click.
Finally, Carl’s voice came through the line. “I’ve got the part. I can come tomorrow at one.”
My heart dropped to my heels. “Spence will be in Cleveland, and I’m leading a ZOOM meeting from one to five.”
“Maybe,” Carl hesitated, “I can finish my morning jobs faster.”
What was I thinking? “Come whenever you can. We’ll make it work.”
At twenty after twelve Saturday, Carl lugged armfuls of gear into the house. “Let’s see what we can do this time.” He changed shoes, strode to the bathroom, and closed the door.
Ande took up his guard post.
A drill buzzed, metal clanked, and tools clinked.
I finished lunch and started Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters meeting via ZOOM with the caveat that I would have to break away to pay the repairman.
After two and a half hours, Carl stepped into the hall and whispered, “I’m finished.”
Holding up a finger, I interrupted a ghost story discussion. “The repairman’s done. Take over, Maggie.”
I muted my microphone and followed Carl to the kitchen.
He flung his arms to his sides. “It isn’t working.”
Not working!
“I tried everything I know. Usually I can figure out what’s wrong. I’m puzzled.” He handed me a bill for the equivalent of one service charge. “I suggest you buy a new washer.”
Ande Sniffing Carl's Shoe
“This isn’t enough.” Carl had come three times and spent over five hours on the washer.
“It is.” He changed his shoes. “I didn’t fix it.”
Carl couldn't perform a miracle. I would have to buy a new washer and wait for delivery. Sheesh.
I wrote Carl’s check and finished the ZOOM meeting. Then, regretting my dependence on machines, I sorted through two baskets and the hamper of laundry. Pulling out necessities, I created two small loads—underwear, socks and tank tops for Spence; underwear, socks, and bras for me. In the utility tub I hand agitated clothes in soapy water, wrung each piece, agitated the clothes in rinse water twice, and wrung each piece extra tight. I didn’t wring the clothes as efficiently as the washer. The dryer took five times longer to fluff and dry.
September 7, leaving eighteen days of laundry—minus a week’s worth of underwear—stacked between the shower and commode, I drove Spence to Fullerton’s, an appliance store in Meadville. The owner dragged himself toward us and, in an annoyed voice, asked, “May I help you?”
I explained needing a washer to put under my dryer and handed him a paper with the serial number for the washer.
“They don’t make them anymore.” He handed the paper back and rubbed his hands together as if ridding himself of something nasty. “The movers won’t stack the old dryer on a new washer. It’s too dangerous.”
Turning his head to survey a customer with another salesman, the owner said, “The safest thing would be to buy both and give the dryer to a friend.”
Spence whispered, “He’s more interested in solving his problem than yours.”
I looked at the only stacking washer-dryer pair in the store. They totaled more than two thousand dollars. As much as I wanted to end my laundry saga, I didn’t like that deal. “I need to think it over.”
The owner spun around and power-walked to his office.
Spence opened the door for me. “We can look at Home Depot.”
Home Depot had two rows of stacked washer-dryer pairs. A polite college student listened to my wish to replace the washer then shook his head. “Manufacturers change the designs. Unless you find the same model, it’s unsafe to stack them.” He topped that bad news. “The earliest this can be delivered is October fifth.”
Forty-six days of laundry? Absolutely not.
We drove to Flicks at the traffic circle on Route 322. Three salespeople helped different couples. Beyond a maze of TVs and microwaves, washer-dryers filled the next room. While I stared at capacities and price tags, Spence folded his arms across his chest and watched a cherubic four-year-old run away from his grandma. “He’s energetic,” Spence called to her.
“At least his brother and sister are in school,” she said, hustling into the room with stoves and refrigerators.
I settled on an LG washer-dryer set and reached for the Consumer Reports ratings chart on top of a stand alone washer. Matching model numbers to the store’s machines stumped me.
A saleswoman, having finished with a couple looking at TVs, approached quietly.
“How do I find the rating for this machine?” I touched the white front of the washer.
She flipped pages and pointed to a line. “This is the closest model.”
The chart marked Excellent and Very Good for nine of the ten characteristics. “What’s the Good rating for?”
She squinted. “Gentleness.”
Not a deal breaker.
Spence asked, “Could we just buy the washer?”
She shook her head. “It’s not safe.”
Remembering how the washer-dryer stack shook and shimmied during the spin cycle, I didn’t begrudge the extra cost of buying both. It wasn’t worth the risk of having the dryer crash onto one of the cats.
The saleswoman kept her cool demeanor while I peppered her with a dozen more questions. I learned the movers would deliver the pair on September 17, cart the old washer away, and move the dryer to the porch until our nephew Patrick could take it. I didn’t ask, how will I manage twenty-eight days of laundry?
I spent the next day in the bathroom hand processing four utility tub loads of laundry.
The afternoon of September 17 brought sunshine, actual and metaphoric. Brian, a twenty-something with a trimmed black beard, and Brett, a fifty-something with a gray ponytail, arrived. Both wore baseball caps and looked ready for a marathon.
Ambassador Ande greeted and escorted this new delegation to the bathroom. Then, as Brett banged the bathroom door off its hinges and pounded the dryer off its mounting rack, Ande watched the rest of the move from under the couch.
With the dryer strapped to the dolly, Brett pushed and Brian guided the load down the hall. Without a word, they paused at the front door and, as if dancing a well-rehearsed ballet, lifted the load over the threshold and onto the porch.
“Looks like you’ve done this before,” I said in awe of their ease. “How many do you move a day?”
Brett grinned. “Six to ten.”
As smoothly as they dealt with the old dryer, they removed the trouble-making washer. After patiently waiting for me to scrub the floor, they stacked the new machines. Brett tested to make sure the dryer heated and the washer took in water. Then he gave me papers to sign.
Back in the bathroom, I sorted the mountain of laundry into seven piles. Tossing the whites into the shiny tub, I closed the washer door, and took a deep yoga breath. My index finger trembled when I pushed the power button.
A fluty arpeggio sounded and slits of white light blinked on the panel. After spinning the drum a couple of times, the machine posted ninety-one minutes. My old machine only took two-thirds that time. Maybe I’d done something wrong. Water spurted into the drum. Maybe not.
Next I loaded Spence’s jeans and, because he’d worn the clothes many more days than usual, turned the dial to heavy duty. The washer spun, blinked, and posted 3H. Three hours? YIKES! What kind of monster did I buy? I’d never finish the laundry at this rate.
The washer posted sixty-nine minutes when I selected the towel cycle for the third load. Why was the machine choosing such different times? Gaining new insight for the phrase “go with the flow,” I kept loading the washer.
Within thirty-six hours of signing Brian’s papers, Charlie and I had washed and dried nine loads of laundry. The washer cranked and sloshed to wash, oohed a ghostly whine to rinse, droned in a high-pitch to spin, and ended with a sixteen-note fluty melody that reminded Spence of a Barney song.
Whatever noises the washer made and whatever time it chose was fine with me—as long as it got the laundry clean.
LG Washer-Dryer at Work
