Lessons from the Laundromat

When I was in my early twenties I left the comforts of (what had become) home in New England. I decided to go back to my roots in California. I snapped up a beautiful rental cottage a mile from the beach in Santa Barbara. I had found paradise and they allowed my dog to live there. There were palm trees and a garbage disposal. But, it didn’t come with a washer and a dryer.

I kept busy with my job. Friends visited. And the dirty laundry baskets began to overflow. “But, what do we DO?” I asked my younger brother—who had dutifully moved in with me to give California another try. He mentioned he’d seen a place down the road. It had stacks of washing machines. Dyers too! We quickly discovered they required quarters. And your own soap. Eventually we kind of got the hang of it.

For the first few months we were patrons of two different Laundromats. My overall impression at the time (and I am embarrassed to admit this) were that mostly “creeps” hung out at both. And, it is true, that more than one creepy looking guy “made eyes at me” and more than once I left before folding-- just to get out of the place. I wouldn’t go alone. And my brother and I both waited until every last scrap of clothes in the cottage were completely unclean to head—trunk piled high—to do our laundry. Sometimes we also had to wait for payday. Of course we then always rewarded ourselves with Sushi from Arigatos. If you haven’t got the picture in your head yet, I was pretty spoiled. And, I certainly thought myself “above” needing a Laundromat. 

Things started to change when I got to know my neighbors. A young couple moved into the studio across the street. They also had the sweetest, most cute, most  precious baby girl (She had me at her first drool, ok?). Before too long, we were hanging out a bit. And (wipe tear), they invited me to do laundry with them. And they had found THE PLACE. This place was sunny and small and directly across the street from a yummy breakfast place. I was smitten. With my friends too. 

My friends didn’t complain about laundry day. They just did it. Little pumpkin in arm (or backpack) came along and we all sorted, washed and folded together. Jill, she really still is my hero for this, knew how to fold fitted sheets. The right way. To this day, I can’t do it without her present. And she lives a few thousand miles away. Pause a moment to shutter at the thought of my linen closets. It is ok. I have plenty of closet space and I keep the doors closed. You can relax now. 

Laundry day became…enjoyable? And, I even grew to appreciate the efficiency of getting everything done all at once—rather than my other method of rushing to wash just what I needed for work tomorrow. And a friendship was made—over folded towels and pastry.  I learned Matt was in school for photography and a few months later, Matt was taking beautiful photographs at my wedding. No creeps at our laundromat. Just good friends.

Ten years and few thousand miles later, and we are still friends trying to figure out when we can plan a co-family trip to our favorite places at Disneyland. And, up until recently, we have both had the luxury (and loneliness) of doing our laundry in our own homes.

Since November our washing machine and/or dryer have been on the fritz. They aren’t mine, or I would replace them. They belong to my landlord. And, I have a lot of emotions and words about our landlord situation right now, but just suffice it to say it hasn’t been pleasant as of late. And I've been praying. A lot.

Up until recently, it worked juuust often enough that I could keep a clean outfit or two for everyone available in the house. I’ve had wonderful friends let me throw a load or two in while we visit over coffee. Sadly, either they do not know how to fold fitted sheets or they aren't willing so share their knowledge.  Eventually the time had to come where there was just too much. And, gulp. I found myself heading to the Laundromat again.  $20, $40, $60 in quarters later and I we were on our way.  Three kids, me and a mini-van full of laundry. I mean, the kids had to move up to the middle seats full. I couldn’t see out the back. You get the picture?

We pulled into the parking lot of the laundromat on a nearby military base. As I lugged everything inside (with 3 kids lugging behind me) I quickly realized I was the only woman there. And definitely the only person with children in tow. A passing thought--now I don't remember the guys hanging out at the SB laundromats being this cute...but, I digress. Now, I was the middle-aged matron with three meddling kids invading what appeared to be a fairly friendly, albeit testosterone owned, space. It is not an exaggeration to say that everyone stopped to stare. I smiled, bravely, and tried to act "natural". Ha!

After being cut in line 2-3 times as washers came free, I was starting to think ugly thoughts about chivalry's deadness and days gone by. But, I kept my head down and pushed my way to a washer (or 3) the next time.

Some unwelcome thoughts of being "above" all this were sneaking back into my heart. And then, the humbling began.

I eavesdrop a lot. I don't know if it is because I like to read and write or just because I'm nosy, but I can't help but pick up on the conversations all around me.

Let me tell you a little bit about what I learned. Two of these guys were fresh home from deployment. Three more were about to head "back to the sandbox". They weren't washing their church clothes. They were washing their battle-gear. They laughed and joked and they saved dryers for each other. They were probably not even at the drinking age yet. And that is when my mother's heart first began to ache. I no longer rushed to grab the first free dryer (although, I will admit, my kids were pretty fast even without prompting).

Sitting there waiting, and waiting, and listening I witnessed two displays of comradery that will forever change my feelings about the laundromat--and hopefully my behavior too.

I watched an older soldier (meaning, more like my age instead of JV Basketball) get his laundry started and then look around. When no one was looking he stuck a $20 bill into the change machine then walked away. I kept watching. A few minutes later he went over to the machine and said "Hey, guys? Does this money belong to anyone?". When no one claimed it, he put the pile of coins on the counter, and walked away. Slowly, but surely, the young guys came by and grabbed a few coins. Never all of them, but just a few. And, I remembered--they serve our country for so little. If I am feeling the pinch of paying to do laundry, what does it feel like to them? Apparently, there were others who have thought of this before. Another "older" gentleman I'd been conversing with stopped me "Ma'am I'm just going to leave this extra (note: FULL) box of laundry detergent here. You're more than welcome to use it" and he winked as he left with his clean load. I had a full bottle of detergent. But, I made sure the next two guys about to purchase soap knew about the box. They gratefully used it. But, not all of it. Just what they needed.

4 hours after I arrived, I was finally loading my car up with stacks of baskets. I had stayed to fold. No creeps to run away from here. Just a bunch of guys (just like my husband) who seemed to take it in stride that they protect my freedom one day and wash their gear the next. And just a couple of men who are probably passing through the area on training--far from the families and spouses who usually help with this task--who took a second to "remember how it was" for them, and leave something behind to make the day just a little easier for their brothers in arms.

Pulling our of the parking lot I'd left a little piece of my heart behind. And some laundry detergent and a basket too. Next time I do laundry there I probably won't invade their space on a Sunday afternoon again (probably why I was the only woman there--who is dumb enough to go to the laundromat on Sunday afternoon? Pffft. Not me! again.). But, I will not complain. And I will go through these extra clothes and keep, not all of it, but just the few we need. I can leave the extra quarters I save, next time.

Don't Forget--His Dad just left

As long as my Grandfather was on earth he reminded us all "Don't Forget".  It was quite easy to remember he loved us. He told us all of the time. Usually he was laughing hard at one of our antics (I'm talking about when I was 30 years old) when he'd gasp out  "I love youuuu, honey" through peals of red-faced laughter. A few minutes later when he'd recovered he'd say "Don't forget" with a twinkle in his eye. I haven't. I won't. Not ever.

My grandfather retired from the Navy as a Master Sergeant, having climbed all the ranks of the enlisted Navy. He was hardworking and dedicated. He did his job (and everything in his life) with the utmost integrity and love. He had three beautiful girls and a doting wife and he routinely said goodbye to them to "ship out". My mother, now in her 50's, talks about saying goodbye to her "Daddy" with as much emotion as if it happened yesterday. She hated it. She missed him every single second he was gone. She noticed her mother's grief--intensified after the tragic loss of their oldest daughter. She hated those big Navy ships in the yard. She hated the Navy. It was what took her beloved Daddy away again and again. Her Dad who read to her endlessly. Her Dad who invented Hot Chocolate and Peanut Butter Toast as a viable breakfast option. Her Daddy who laughed at her almost constant antics and reminder never, ever, to "forget".

Maybe it is because I grew up with these stories that I pretty much promised myself I wanted nothing to do with that kind of life (HA! so funny). Even though I deeply admired my Grandfather, I loved my mother even more. And, the Navy had hurt her. That was all I could really see.

Someday I'll write a post about how I became a patriot. I really wasn't always one. In fact, I stepped all over the toes of some of my friends in the military (actually, perhaps more like kicking them in the shins). I probably still do, at times of insensitivity. But, I'm much, much better. But, today, I'm not feeling like much of a Patriot. To be honest, I'm feeling like a soldier side-by-side with wounded wives (and parents, and husbands, and children) all over our country. I want to find a chair and cry tears with pouring rain that is flooding the creeks and streams around us. I am a military wife.

You see, there is a little boy at my son's preschool who is perpetually happy. We'll call him V. V greets me each day with a high five and a "hey what's up, L__'s mom?!" and his soprano voice lilts with the joyfulness he exudes. Almost every day he has organized some great imaginary game for his friends, including my son, and he's eager to make me, and the other parents, a part of it.

One day, he gave me tickets to his rockband show. "Um. It is at my house. At 7 o'clock. Your son is doing a great job! A greaaaat job! Don't be late. We'll see you there!".

Another time, he assured me that he was planning a way to treat the whole school to an entire WEEKEND at Chuckee-Cheeses. When his family was leaving on vacation, he created an entire story about how he was moving away and had long dramatic goodbyes with all of his friends (thankfully his teacher reassured us this "move" was only temporary and he'd back in a week). V is easy to love. He's a "little man" and I really, really, like this kid.

This morning I struggled to get my son out the door. He screamed. He kicked his shorts off. He told me there was no-way, no-how, he wanted to go to school today. I reminded him V would be waiting for him, but even that couldn't pierce his frustration this morning. We've had a week like that. Suddenly, he's testing the limits on this school thing. Does he have to go? Does he have to stay for the full day? What if he doesn't want to take a nap? You get the idea. Although he has gladly kissed me goodbye and sent me on my way in the past, the last 2 weeks have been different. I've left him in tears (that last only as long as it takes me to climb the stairs). I've been trying to get to the root of it, but I'm not there yet. My mother's instincts tell me he is really just testing. He wants to make sure this isn't an area he has a choice.

Anyway, as I was extricating myself from the grip of my little boy this morning, I looked over and saw V. He was in a death-grip hug-lock with his mother. I overheard her reassurances. He wasn't having any of it. There were no tears (yet), but it was clear he did not want his mom to leave him today. I gave a knowing smile to his mother and said "You know, we've been having a tough time too". She smiled at me. We are friendly, but not friends. "His Dad just left. Last night." and it was if she had punched me in the gut. I knelt down to talk to V. I suggested playdates and park excursions. But, who was I kidding? This was like trying to fill a canyon with a child's bucket full of sand. I touched his head. I smiled at his mom. And I retreated to my car.

You see, even though my husband has not been deployed since the very beginning of our marriage, I never, ever forget. Maybe it is because of the real memory of hurt in my mother's eyes as she talks of her childhood. Maybe it is because I have a very active imagination. Maybe it is because I would have never chosen this particular way to serve, but I fell in love with someone who is deeply committed to serving his country (first on the bomb squad, now as a physician). My husband will be deployable again in 3.5 years. Even though I know we are long past due, I am not at all happy to be staring that kind of sacrifice in the face. This cross seems to be one to choose me perhaps because I dislike it so much?

I'm not sure how long V's dad is gone. And, perhaps, he's only TDY. But, I do know he is a dedicated Marine. And he serves with the same jovial spirit I see in his son (I've never encountered V's dad without a smile on his face or warmth in his interactions). About half of the kids at my son's school have parents who are active duty military. "His Dad (or Mom) just left" is overheard more often than "we can't decide where to go on vacation". This is the reality for these children. For my children.

When 9/11 happened we vowed never, ever, to forget. And, I guess most people haven't. But, I do want to plead with you all not to forget the military families who continue to serve. They say goodbye again and again and again to their loved ones. They may appear to make it look easy or routine, but it is anything but. Their children cry over the missed parents. They act out.  Kids get sick and need visits to the ER--with all the other kids in tow. Birthdays take planning and broad shows of strength and smiles when one parent is in a far away land. And the spouse left behind may not speak her fears, but I assure you she has them.

When we say "Don't Forget" it has to be more than a mental exercise. It has to be a catalyst for the action of love. Can we babysit? Can we invite a family over for Sunday dinner? Or holidays? Can we stop what we are doing to "be there" for our military friends? Your day is long and you are stressed and your husband was traveling all last week...I get it. I am the queen of all excuses. But, let's make a renewed commitment not to forget our friends who selflessly serve. Let's go out of our way to support organizations that support families through all stages of deployment. Let's remember how safe we feel knowing there are those who are trained to protect us. And let's never forget the price our service members, and their families, pay to do this for us.

My grandfather never complained about serving. I doubt my grandmother did to anyone outside of our immediate family. They shouldered far more than there fair share of grief. And they didn't ask anything of anyone. Still, I can't help to wonder at a much deeper meaning behind my Grandpa's words. And, I echo his admonition: "Don't forget".

(p.s. No editing has been done, but I'm publishing anyway. If I have time, I will go back and edit later)