Looking out my Backdoor: Let me tell you a secret

Was it Mark Twain who said that any two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead? I have a secret, but it is too good not to share. But I’ll only tell you. So get a mug of coffee and pull up a chair to the table.

But before I spill my guts, let me tell you the backstory. In 1966, when my daughter was a baby in diapers, I lived on a small ranch south of Dodson. We had electricity. That is important because a lot of our neighbors were not hooked up to the flick of a switch. We did not have running water nor indoor facilities, but we did have a good well.

As with many such places, the well water was piped into the cattle watering tank by way of that flick of the switch, automatically keeping the water tank the proper level. For the house, I had to pump water into buckets and lug them down the path into the kitchen.

Laundry day in winter was my personal nightmare. Fortunately I had a wringer washing machine and large rinse tubs which took over my entire kitchen. I heated water on the woodstove to wash the whites first, followed by the coloreds, followed by work clothes.

If you don’t know what a wringer washer is, Google it. I say wash day was a nightmare. In summer it was tolerable. In winter, well, it was better than a scrub board, all laundry washed by hand. I got to find that out. My washing machine broke down. My husband was not mechanically inclined. I found the scrub board (again, Google it) in the cellar.

As nightmares tend to do, the washer didn’t break down in summer. No, it was winter. Imagine scrubbing the entire laundry by hand, ammonia stinking cloth diapers and all, wringing out excess water as best you can, until your skin is raw. Now haul the dripping lot out to the clothesline to be pinned, bare-handed, in the freezing wind where hopefully they will freeze dry by the end of the day. Now the tubs of dirty water have to be emptied and carted outside to be dumped down the creek bank. Haul more water into the house and heat water to scrub the floor, by this time an inch deep in mud and slush. Then fix lunch for the men.

This routine went on several weeks. One night I had a dream in which I repaired my washing machine. The following morning, I gathered my few simple tools, crawled under the wringer washer, carefully followed the dream instructions, and repaired my washer my own self. It worked hot-diggity.

I had an extra part which didn’t seem to fit anywhere nor seem to be necessary. Thus did “EP” for extra parts enter of our family vocabulary.

Believe me, I know the importance of a washing machine to whomever is on laundry duty.

Now for the secret. Let me pour you another cup of coffee. Promise you will keep this to yourself.

Back in the first wave of COVID, now over two years ago, a family in our little town all became sick. Mom, Dad, Grandma and three young children. The father died leaving the family without resources. Their story, among all the tragic stories in town, touched my heart.

“What do they need most,” I asked. “Food,” was the answer. I can help some. Now and then I skip my groceries and buy food to feed the family. At Christmas time, everybody got new shoes. I do know what is most important to a growing family.

I give anonymously. They have no idea who is helping. Leo shops for me and he’s not telling. I know the Mama’s neighbors help them too. People come together. This story touched a friend of mine who lives in Idaho. He sent me a sum of money recently, larger than I can scrape together, with instructions to help my adopted family.

Immediately I ordered a goodly supply of groceries for them and gave myself a good week or so longer to think how best to help the family. My own experiences gave me the answer.

I wish I could have been a gecko on the wall to see their faces when Leo delivered a brand new washing machine and hooked it up for the family. He said there were many happy tears, many thanks, much surprise and awe. Neighbors from all around came to marvel at the new machine, to touch it, to add their blessings.

Doesn’t that just make you feel good?

I am the lucky person standing in the crossroads who got to spend my friend’s money to give a gift that will help for years to come.

But, don’t tell. It really is a secret.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].