Our top-loading, white Kenmore washer is 35 years old but still works remarkably well. However, periodically—I’d say about every 9 months—the cold water line clogs, making the washer take ridiculously long to fill with blistering, instead of the desired warm, water. A screen built into the cold water hose connection in the back has to be cleaned, and instead of paying a plumber, my wife and I do the cleaning ourselves—and by “ourselves” I mean me.
We collect bucket, pliers, cotton swabs, rubbing alcohol, and paper towels. Also duster cloths because after 9 months, it’s filthy behind the washer.
First, I have to move the washing machine out from the wall. This is difficult. I walk it by pulling out one side then the other, repeatedly, in a procedure that I’m pretty sure looks like I’m dancing with a reluctant hippopotamus.
The space I’m able to make for myself to work in—by performing said hippo tango—is 30 inches wide, but in only 20 inches of that space can I stand up because of the cabinet encroaching overhead. Between the washer in front of me and the wall behind me and with the nuisance of the bucket, I have only about 2 feet of workable space, not even enough space to kneel down in. I’m 69 years old, and I’m proud that (I don’t know how to say this without its sounding bad) but I’m proud I can still … squat. And that’s what I have to do behind the washer.
After I climb onto the dryer and swing my legs around, my wife, my backwards-obstetrician, covers the sharp point of the cabinet corner with her hands and helps me cram myself down into a quasi-fetal position. Then, I begin my labor. Beginning with tiny baby forceps (the aforementioned pliers), I unscrew the cold water umbilical hose, and the water breaks … out into the bucket.
After the screen is clean and I’ve reattached the hose and checked for leaks, the most crucial moment of the whole procedure comes, the moment when I try to straighten my knees and stand back up so that I can be delivered from the tight space I’ve inhabited for the past 20 to 30 minutes. I know that the day will come when I can’t stand up, when I’m stuck, when I can’t squeeze out on my own and, as I imagine it, my bride will call our neighbor or flag down passing motorists or call the fire department and tell them, “My husband is stuck in a squat behind our washing machine and can’t get up. … No, he didn’t fall there; he deliberately climbed back there.”
In order to postpone that scenario to a future day—when it’s time for me to emerge, I begin a mantra of encouragement to my legs and in my mind shout, “PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! And then after a pregnant … pause, with loud cries of pain, and aided by my wife, my—if you will—mid-wife, I am born again.
(My thanks to Wildacres Retreat, where this essay was written.)
A someone who is a massive fan of shapes, I loved this circle of life-cycle tale.
As someone who is NOT a massive fan of math, if you were to visit Wildacres Retreat more often, would it mean we get to read Bill Spencer more often?
If the answer is yes, I’ll talk to you when you get back.
Wildacres IS an inspirational place. Carolyn and I are very fortunate to have found it.