The Laundromat

1976, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I remember the laundromat that my mother used to take me to when I was a child.

It sat on the north side of the town square sandwiched between two other businesses: a little girl dress shop called "Sugar and Spice" and a Realtor's office, if memory serves. The front of the laundromat looked like a giant multi-glass-paned garage door that could open up its entirety to the outside when raised. The ceiling was almost two stories high which made for a massive cube of space ringed by dryers. Washing machines occupied the center with at least two large folding tables. Scattered about were wheeled metal laundry baskets, each with a suspended bar for hangers.

The drone of the dryers and wumping of the washers made it a very noisy place. The smell of laundry detergent and an oppressive heat surrounded you, but it was something peculiar, different from home.

I loved getting the change from my mother to put in the detergent dispensing machine, hearing the clink of the falling quarters, three in a row, and then getting a firm grip on the rounded handle and pulling back with a hard tug until it stopped and a small brightly colored box of detergent thudded into the tray. Further satisfaction came from releasing it quickly so that it returned with a loud metallic clack. These little boxes were like toys and once they were emptied they could be used to play basketball with the laundry baskets as well as kicked, whacked, or thrown.

At night the well lit interior threw bucketfuls of light out onto the darkened square creating elongated shadows of the swings and slide situated across the street on the square proper. Red and yellow points of light from circling cars winked like fireflies.

I remember my mother always wearing a dress, beehive hairdo, no make up, and a bit of a scowl on her face. I was always testing her limits, making it difficult for her to relax or just be able to do what she needed to do with a minimal amount of hassle. My older sister was there too, maybe nine to my seven, as well as my younger sister who was just a toddler. Those two were manageable, compliant to some degree, the older looking out for the younger.

I, on the other hand, was trying to climb into carts or disappear into dryer holes. If my mother had her back turned for too long while folding clothes, I was outside seeing how far I could get down the sidewalk before being ordered back and scolded.  I've seen that scowl on my wife's face, trying to deal with our sometimes unruly and rambunctious son.  I'm sure that scowl has been on my face, seen in my son's expression like a mirror, his nose scrunched up in anger.

Almost forty years later and with a seven year old son of my own, I am just now able to feel the full weight of sympathy for this mother of three laundering our clothes in a small Midwestern town on a hot summer's night.