Yesterday I had the privilege of reliving a childhood experience, but from a different angle. For a couple of years my parents owned a laundromat. Many Saturdays were spent helping mom or dad tend to this business. They both had full time jobs and this was our family's part time job.
A favorite chore for my sister and I, was to clean the lint traps on the washing machines. Thinking back, it was kind of gross and slimy. But for Laurie and I it was an adventure. The treasures left in pockets ended up caught in these traps. We never knew what we'd find. Dimes, nickels, pennies. We'd clean them as fast as we could to get to the next possible treasure find. I didn't like finding dead bugs, or when I couldn't tell what the object was. A key, buttons, a nail or screw, mostly typical things kept in a pocket or on clothing. But sometimes it might be a locket, earring, or other interesting artifact. At our young age, we didn't mind kneeling on the floor to accomplish the task. We got to keep whatever we found.
We loaded the vending and change machines too. I especially enjoyed filling up the soda pop machine and emptying out the coins. I could never figure out who it was that drank strawberry soda. It was always the most empty, and orange was the second. Nobody in my family liked either. I did drink my share of Mountain Dew, from a frosty glass bottle. Why doesn't soda come in glass anymore? It tasted so much better and seemed way colder. Mmm...the last time I drank Mountain Dew was at that laundromat and there will little chunks of ice in the bottle.
I went to the laundromat yesterday. But this time, it was as a patron. We have a broken sewer line. This very minute, men in jumpsuits are jackhammering the concrete under my laundry room floor. All we'd noticed last week was the drain wasn't emptying very fast. Since it was a holiday weekend, we waited to do laundry, run the dishwasher, etc. So I took my 14 loads of dirty clothes to the laundromat.
Instead of joy at filling the change machine, I fed my dollars into it. I got back quarters instead of dimes and nickels. Thirty dollars worth of quarters. It wasn't as much fun watching those coins going into the machine as I had as a kid hearing them drop into the metal change box. I imagined a young girl emptying the coins with her dad, taking pleasure at the sound of quarters emptying out. They probably don't plunk quite the same as I remember nickels did. But I'll bet she uses a plastic container that doesn't sing the way our coins jingled and clanked against the metal.
I did sweat more than I remember as a kid too. Which is surprising since I grew up in heat of the Phoenix desert. I guess it was the 14 loads of laundry. Have I mentioned that? But the childhood memories of laundromat ownership was worth the sweat and toil I endured.
One afternoon Dad and I worked hard. The machines were filled and emptied. Everything was wiped down and cleaned. Dad let me mop the floors with the big string mop and wringer bucket. I felt so strong flinging it back and forth. We locked up and I climbed up into his old blue pickup truck. As usual, he set the big metal coin box between the two front seats next to the gear shift. We each positioned a cold soda between out legs for the 20 minute drive home, a Pepsi for him, Mountain Dew for me. He started the engine, but before shifting, he leaned over and opened the metal box. He pulled out a 50 cent piece and handed it to me.
"Here. You worked hard today and I'm glad you came with me." I took the shiny coin. It felt like a million bucks, mostly because of the pride with which it was given. As we drove home, we listened to country music and sang. No, we jammed. The tin box became our snare drum and the handle of it made a tambourine sound. Dad would hit the side with the back of his hand, tap the top to jingle the metal together, beating to the rhythm of each song. Then I'd get a turn. I don't remember coming home exhausted like I did yesterday. But I do believe I came home feeling much taller.
