This morning I did something that is very sad. I went to a coin laundry to do my wash.
People go to a coin laundry because they do not have access to a washer (and sometimes because they have loads that requrie a commercial washer- a minority in my experience). This implies a sort of homelessness, a desperation and loneliness that sounds loudly in my soul. My fellow washers were a mixed bunch, as many men as women, most appearing poor by their clothing but not all. The washers lock, but most of us hung around for our wash, not talking or looking at each other, admitting by our presence that we had nothing else pressing to do, and nowhere to go. And we did not talk. It is a marked privacy invasion to speak to a stranger while they fold their clothes.
I crave the marks and rituals of intimacy. My mother gave me a great deal of freedom to go places and do things, and I appreciate that. I am hard to frighten in a strange environment as a result. I was also essentially ignored. No one at concerts, no one to greet me at a train (I would take a taxi home), no one to greet me at the airport (I came home from Europe twice by myself without anyone waiting for my arrival), no one at my graduations.
I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I can do laundry, I am an excellent and inventive cook, and my family will tell you I clean a kitchen better than anyone, washing down the counters completely. I am an excellent ironer of shirts. I can make a bed and wash a floor, clean a toilet or a sink. I don't need or want a wife to do chores for me. It is the marks of intimacy that I want. Waking up next to someone who gives a damn that you are alive, finding folded socks where there had been laundry, eating together, regardless of who cooks, watching a movie curled up on a couch with the dog.
The coin lundry is a sign of my spiritual homelessness. My family are in Europe, I am in a house in Chattanooga with hardly any furnishings, which has been a construction zone for 2 weeks while new floors are put in. I have no washer or dryer; laundry was done when I came to Knoxville. I have no friends here; work is stimulating and pleasing, but night time and weekends are like solitary confinement.
In Genesis, after the flood God makes a covenant with Noah and every living thing on earth. He promises He will never again destroy the earth. As a sign of this, He says ' I will put my bow in the clouds as a sign of my covenant with you. When the clouds gather, and rain falls upon the earth, I will see my bow in the clouds and remember my covenant with you.'
I can't wait for my family to get home. Even if it is only an evening phone call, my wife and I talk every day, but not while in Europe. They come home Monday, and I will be at the airport to meet them, and hug them, and love them.
And, like God's bow, I will always remember 'Maytag' as a reminder of spiritual destitution and loneliness. And when a vacation seems like too much trouble, or visiting someone's parent seems like too much trouble, or I am tired, I will remember how it felt to change a twenty into quarters to do my wash with strangers.
And we will never have a separate vacation or live apart again. Never again.
Ted
People go to a coin laundry because they do not have access to a washer (and sometimes because they have loads that requrie a commercial washer- a minority in my experience). This implies a sort of homelessness, a desperation and loneliness that sounds loudly in my soul. My fellow washers were a mixed bunch, as many men as women, most appearing poor by their clothing but not all. The washers lock, but most of us hung around for our wash, not talking or looking at each other, admitting by our presence that we had nothing else pressing to do, and nowhere to go. And we did not talk. It is a marked privacy invasion to speak to a stranger while they fold their clothes.
I crave the marks and rituals of intimacy. My mother gave me a great deal of freedom to go places and do things, and I appreciate that. I am hard to frighten in a strange environment as a result. I was also essentially ignored. No one at concerts, no one to greet me at a train (I would take a taxi home), no one to greet me at the airport (I came home from Europe twice by myself without anyone waiting for my arrival), no one at my graduations.
I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I can do laundry, I am an excellent and inventive cook, and my family will tell you I clean a kitchen better than anyone, washing down the counters completely. I am an excellent ironer of shirts. I can make a bed and wash a floor, clean a toilet or a sink. I don't need or want a wife to do chores for me. It is the marks of intimacy that I want. Waking up next to someone who gives a damn that you are alive, finding folded socks where there had been laundry, eating together, regardless of who cooks, watching a movie curled up on a couch with the dog.
The coin lundry is a sign of my spiritual homelessness. My family are in Europe, I am in a house in Chattanooga with hardly any furnishings, which has been a construction zone for 2 weeks while new floors are put in. I have no washer or dryer; laundry was done when I came to Knoxville. I have no friends here; work is stimulating and pleasing, but night time and weekends are like solitary confinement.
In Genesis, after the flood God makes a covenant with Noah and every living thing on earth. He promises He will never again destroy the earth. As a sign of this, He says ' I will put my bow in the clouds as a sign of my covenant with you. When the clouds gather, and rain falls upon the earth, I will see my bow in the clouds and remember my covenant with you.'
I can't wait for my family to get home. Even if it is only an evening phone call, my wife and I talk every day, but not while in Europe. They come home Monday, and I will be at the airport to meet them, and hug them, and love them.
And, like God's bow, I will always remember 'Maytag' as a reminder of spiritual destitution and loneliness. And when a vacation seems like too much trouble, or visiting someone's parent seems like too much trouble, or I am tired, I will remember how it felt to change a twenty into quarters to do my wash with strangers.
And we will never have a separate vacation or live apart again. Never again.
Ted
A poignant entry...and one that I understand only too well, for I had a similar experience when I first moved to Knoxville in the late 90's: no furniture in an apartment (I slept on the floor for two months), a wife and family many miles away, no friends in the area, work pleasing, but the loneliness so strong it was almost palpable. Experiences of deprivation make us appreciate what we have even more.
ReplyDeleteI love the ending, "And, like God's bow, I will always remember 'Maytag' as a reminder of spiritual destitution and loneliness. And when a vacation seems like too much trouble, or visiting someone's parent seems like too much trouble, or I am tired, I will remember how it felt to change a twenty into quarters to do my wash with strangers."
I found the following quite poignant, "No one at concerts, no one to greet me at a train (I would take a taxi home), no one to greet me at the airport (I came home from Europe twice by myself without anyone waiting for my arrival), no one at my graduations." Many, many moons ago I dated a girl whose growing years were just like that. It was "normal" for her, though obviously she needed (and deep down craved) love and attention.
And finally, I loved this, "It is the marks of intimacy that I want. Waking up next to someone who gives a damn that you are alive, finding folded socks where there had been laundry, eating together, regardless of who cooks, watching a movie curled up on a couch with the dog."
It puts me in mind of a poem written by Samuel Johnson (though published, I believe, by Oliver Goldsmith):
"How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure.
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find:
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy."
Indeed. As E. H. Chapin wrote, "Home is the seminary of all other institutions."
Great entry, Ted. Poignant and wise.
David Graham