Looking out my Backdoor: This is the way we wash our clothes

This is the way we wash our clothes, early Monday morning. Mid-cycle, my washing machine quit working. I mean quit. Dead in the water. I mean, dead, full of water and soggy clothes.

The machine gave up, quit, somewhere in rinse cycle. So I had to swish and wring the entire soggy mess out by hand and pin everything on the line, slightly drippy. I knew the clothing would dry quickly, afternoons hang out in the high 80s or lower 90s these days.

The day the machine quit, my go-to-for-help man, Leo, was visiting his 105-year-old auntie in San Antonio, a small town north of Guadalajara, on her birthday.

That gave me a whole day to work up a good old-fashioned righteous mad. I was mad at the machine for quitting. Poor machine was innocent. I was mad at the repairman (obviously incompetent) who had fixed me up a mere five weeks previously. I was mad that I had just enough pesos in my stash for another used machine with nothing extra.

I was mad.

This was the last straw.

By the time Leo showed up the next morning, I was primed to go stomping into town. In his pick-up truck.

I’ve talked about how I formerly, in my youth, full of p and vinegar, less wise, used to approach many aspects of life like “killing snakes.” OK. I back slid, fell off the wagon, reverted to type, however you want to say it. I was ready to bury my poor washer in an unmarked grave, may she Rest In Peace. I mean, I was geared to go and buy a new used machine. As in, I want it and I want it now!

Understand, this is the same washer I’d lovingly had “fixed’ just five weeks previously by that same really nice and super-competent repairman. He had replaced that whole top part, the brain, or whatever it is, with one snaggled from another machine. This is an old machine. In other words, mechanically fixable, for most problems. That’s why I buy used. Fixable in Mexico.

Leo is the epitome of the type person who mulls things over, thinks them through. Drives me nuts. He is much too young to be that sensible. Don’t you hate people like that?

Leo talked me into calling the washer-fixer man and have him take a look. Then, as Leo put it, I’d at least know for sure if she had died, or if there was still life in the old gal. I paraphrase.

The man showed up within an hour. Poked around two, maybe three minutes. Hauled away my washing machine.

Another hour later, he returned, hooked the hoses up and told me that something underneath had come unhooked or unhinged (other than myself). He said I still have a good washing machine.

The nice genius fixer-man charged me 300 pesos, somewhere around $18 USD.

My load of sheets are hanging on the line, happily sun baking.

I surely would feel better if I could hang my chagrin on the line to sun bake. Between impatience and righteousness.

If I was a washing machine in a laundromat, I’d be the one down on the end. The one with scrapes and scars. The one cobbled together with parts from this and that other machine, like Johnny Cash’s Cadillac. I’d be chugging along, grumbling and growling, a little lopsided, my cycle running slower than the others, but I’d get the job done.

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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].