"Why is it always water?" - one of my children, mopping up
Another Watery Adventure
A blast from the past by Noreen Braman
Introduction: After completing my book “Treading Water” I
knew that it probably didn’t mean the end of watery adventures
Yesterday, an appliance malfunction reminded me that
water-related events continue to haunt me. I thought I was safe when the
100-year flood in Jamesburg only brought water into my yard and right up to my
deck, but not into my crawlspace or house. For the past several winters I have
scrupulously avoided frozen, burst water pipes by always remembering to let the
kitchen faucet trickle, just a tiny bit. And the Atlantic Ocean has allowed me
to maintain my dignity by not knocking me down or removing my swimwear during
my summer visits. But, the water may be still, but it is running deep. I have a
toilet that refuses to be fixed, and will run water incessantly if not closely
monitored. The way the little chain manages to knot itself up, despite numerous
adjustments, points to more at work than faulty parts. Which brings me to this
week's adventure, in which two elements conspired against me, water AND fire —
or at least smoke.
In preparation for a seminar in NYC, I threw in a load of
laundry that included just about every seminar-suitable piece of clothing I
own. I also included the only jeans that fit me comfortably. Basically, I left
out formal wear, outfits that require panty hose, and sweats. As the washer
filled up, I filled the teakettle (with what else, water). When the teakettle
whistled I came back into the kitchen and noticed an odd smell. The air seemed
to have a lot of teakettle steam in it. As I poured the water into the teacup,
I realized that the smell was more smoky than steamy, that it was getting worse
and that the washer had stopped.
As soon as I got near the washer, I realized the smoky stink
was coming from it, and my first thought was that the motor was burning up. I
tried to pull the washer out so I could pull the plug, but of course, true to
the way my life goes, the washer was full of water. I turned it off, but the
stink was growing and I expected to see flames behind the washer at any minute.
A fireman's brigade was quickly formed to empty the water from the washer and
dump it in the sink, using a bucket, a pot and some water bottles. My eyes
burned and my throat hurt as we bailed and bailed until finally the washer was
light enough to move.
Thankfully, the plug was not hot, no wires were burning, at
least on the outside of the washer. No flames were evident, and with no power,
the washer cooled down. The smoky stink clung to everything in the house. My
mind flashed back to the apartment I lived in when I was 18. A basement
apartment. An apartment that might not have been legal due to the insufficient
plumbing. The way I learned about that was the day I came home to find sewer
water spewing up out of my toilet and my kitchen sink. It was 4 inches deep in
the kitchen. Luckily, at that time, I had a portable washer, and I spent a long
evening with a bucket, dumping the water into the washer, and then putting the
drain hose out the window to get rid of the fouls smelling stuff.
I was able to break my lease shortly after that. Getting the
smell out of my belongings took a lot longer. Today, I hauled all the sopping
wet clothes from this recent washer adventure outside and hung them to drip
dry. I skipped the seminar (having nothing to wear) and began the "waiting
for the repairman" ritual. While waiting, I counted all the pennies I
could find to try and determine if I could replace the stackable washer and
dryer if indeed the motor was fried. It was looking more and more like I would
be patronizing the disgusting, expensive laundromat in town.
I greeted the repairman like a teenager meeting a pop star,
and hovered nearby as he began to take apart the washer. Taking off the cover
let out a last gasp of choking stink, and we both coughed. The repairman did
his thing while I tried not to overwhelm him with anxious questions. Finally,
his head came out from under the washer. In his hand was what looked like a
giant seal from a mason jar. It was black and crunchy. It was a
"belt" and it had slipped out of wherever it was supposed to be, and
it had burned the only way rubber knows how to burn — by stinking up the place.
He replaced the belt, we ran the washer through its paces,
and to my great relief, it worked fine! The specter of the laundromat faded
from my brain. I could hear my checkbook actually sign with relief. Later, as I
reloaded the washer with the original load of clothes, I thought, maybe the
water stuck in the washer when it stopped wasn't again the universe's damp way
of compounding a problem for me.
Maybe the water was there to protect me, in case the
overheated belt actually did start some flames. Maybe water is finally my
friend. I may have to stop torturing it in the teakettle.
