The washer broke yesterday. Oh, I can’t say it was much of a surprise. It had begun to make funny noises about three weeks ago.
It didn’t owe me anything, as the saying goes. I had bought it used 10 years earlier and it had served me well. However, when it died, it was at the beginning of the wash cycle; I was faced with a medium-sized load of unwashed clothes.
It was as I was wringing out a pair of socks that a picture of my mother came to mind, bent over a tub in the basement, scrubbing on her washboard.