Queen For A Day

I was a little girl during the 1960’s. As many have said, those were simpler times - perhaps only because as adults, our memories have whittled down and discarded those things from childhood that were complicated, or upsetting, or simply not worth remembering. Growing up, TV was a mainstay in our home. Our television set, a small black and white screen in a fairly large box, held pride of place on a shelf in our family room/dining room. and was on from breakfast through the national anthem at midnight. There were three networks - four if you counted PBS, which was really not much of anything in those days - at least in our house.

On rainy days in the summer, we would spend the afternoons inside. There were no sports camps, or community pools (at least until we got older). We rarely visited with friends. We stayed home, my siblings and I, and kept busy with chores, or amusing ourselves as best we could.

I remember my mother teaching me how to sew the summer I turned 8, and how she taught me the complex tasks associated with sewing a dress: the laying out of a tissue pattern on fabric; figuring out fabric bias; the exactitude of my mother’s expectations as she measured each finished seam with a little black ruler. For days, she’d measure, and then quietly, slowly, she’d shake her head, and look at me with those blue-blue eyes, saying calmly, “rip it out and sew it again”. That summer was a summer of the elusive seam, crooked, imperfect, haphazard, repeatedly sewn until each seam was perfectly straight. I never got to wear that dress; it had too many needle holes, and by the time it was finished, I hated it.

During that summer, I remember a show that often played in the background as I ripped out those seams and started over. It was a game show that came on between my mother’s favorite soaps “Search For Tomorrow” and “As The World Turns”. The show was called “Queen For A Day”. Female contestants would stand up in front of a live audience and share their “sob story”; one could call it nothing else. The stories were of hard times, lost jobs, sick families, difficult circumstances. Each one more sad than than the other. Afterwards, the show’s host would present each contestant, and ask the live audience to clap for the one contestant who “deserved” the prize, who deserved to be “Queen For a Day”! And the “clap-o-meter” would record the audience’s enthusiastic response to whichever contestant deserved the prize. The contestant who made the clap-o-meter climb the highest would win the prize. Prizes included a variety of things: medical care for the sick loved one, a trip on the town, appliances for those needing modern conveniences.

But what I remember most were the Maytag washer prizes - perhaps because it was a common prize? Or maybe our own washer wasn’t nearly so modern, or sleek, or fancy. I don’t know, but I can remember as if it were yesterday. And those washers seemed to meet with the greatest delight. Perhaps modern washers and dryers were such a new and avant guard appliance that it seemed particularly glamorous to my young mind. Being named “Queen For a Day” and given a “Brand New Maytag Washer”? Very exciting indeed.

These memories were resurrected in the past few weeks as my own washer (NOT a Maytag) sat sad, lonely and broken in my laundry room. The frustrating and convoluted story of why I didn’t have a working washer for SIX WEEKS doesn’t deserve the time it would take for the telling. Suffice to say, having to live without a washing machine to conveniently wash my clothes in the comfort of my own home was quite an awakening for me. I learned much about myself, about my expectations, and who I am during those six weeks of dealing with repair men, waiting for parts, coordination of repair work, and the inconvenience of not having my own washer.

I learned that in my older years, I have forgotten how many folks are forced to live without washers and dryers. In fact, without many of the conveniences I take for granted. I have had my modern conveniences for so long, I had come to expect them as my right, instead of what they really are - a privilege for a distinct few. And that was a difficult thing to learn about myself. The blessing of having a fairly new, modern washing machine that can wash clothing, sheets, towels, comforters, and most anything I desire to wash and whenever I wanted to wash, had lost its shine. I’d come to expect this as my right, as a convenience I couldn’t live without. After six weeks of schlepping my dirty sheets, towels and underwear to the laundromat umpteen times, I realized I not only could live without such a blessed convenience, but many, many people do.

I learned that there are many folks who frequent laundromats to do their laundry because they have to. They are in circumstances - as varied as the very people themselves - that prevent them from the covenience of entering their own laundry room to “throw in a load” while they cook dinner, or while they sleep. I sat next to some of these folks over the course of those six weeks. One lady took the opportunity to share her life story with me as we waited for our dirty clothes to spin through the cycle. I saw loneliness in her eyes, and pain in her jaw as she talked of living alone in a third floor walk-up apartment, needing to drag her two loads of dried laundry up three flights of stairs with a bad back. I talked with a older gentleman, stooped and crooked with arthritis who loaded a pitifully small bag of laundry into the washing machine, clearly doing laundry for one. He was lonely, too. Perhaps the laundromat was a place for him to hear a kind word, or feel the thrum of life around him for a short hour in his week. And I remember a young couple, festooned with tattoos along arms and legs, doing multiple loads of laundry, quietly sharing the task together, smiling gently, helping with a task they likely did only once a month or so, judging by the amount of clothing for two. A young mom, her washer filled with baby clothes, dark circles under her eyes, and a haunted look in her face. She didn't tell me her story, but I don’t think it was a happy one.

I learned not to judge based on stereotypes. People come in infinite sizes, assorted shapes, various colors and hues and personalities; in various poses and presentations. Sitting for a few minutes each week for six weeks, and watching this human kaleidoscope do the mundane task of washing clothes gave me a new insight into people, as well as into each person I met, allowing a glimpse into hearts and lives I’d not see otherwise.

I also learned that I can do without a washer when necessary. I, too, can juggle time and quarters in order to “make do” when necessary. I once lived without an entire kitchen for three months during the autumn my old kitchen was torn down to the studs for a long-awaited re-do. No sink, no stove or oven, no place to cook, no cabinets to store my stuff. I railed on and on during that time as well, bemoaning the temporary suspension of my privileged, comfortable life. But I survived.

I’ve learned that my modern conveniences really do make me “Queen for a Day” - or in my case, a queen in lifestyle as compared to so many. Going without a washer for six weeks has taught me to be grateful: grateful I have the means to repair that washing machine; grateful to have a modern convenience in my home that affords me the luxury to be picky about how I launder my clothing, about how I wash my whites and delicates, and permanent press.

And I’ve learned that a laundromat is a great leveler of humanity, of neighborhoods, of people. I have a dear friend who claims to love laundromats for that very reason; for the random assemblage of people at any given time of day, affording a glimpse into a small slice of the world, and an opportunity to do some people watching, the exploring of heart and mind and soul. And perhaps, a shared recipe for apple pie.

I’ll be trying that apple pie recipe from that lady who lives on the third floor. It sounds pretty good.