I haven’t been - at all - quiet about how much I detest and despise my washing machine. Over these last eight years, I have endured hard, and I have endured long. And I have endured much. Yes. Very much.
After 25+ years, our washer has truly earned a rest. And - given the circumstances - I was so giddy about that prospect that I lost the ability to speak momentarily. Absolutely - this has been quite the eventful weekend for our family. A weekend that has brought with it much sleep deprivation and much research and much reflection.
Once we were certain that we were improving our situation and were even more certain that a new washer and dryer would be coming to our home (can you tell that I was not going to set myself up for failure and disappointment here?) - I began planning my own personal good-riddance party. It would include chains and sledgehammers and blowtorches and metal bats - and dynamite if I could get my hands on it. Because you’d better believe I was going to beat every. single. one. of my past frustrations out of that retched washing machine. I was going to exact my revenge ... and it would be acute.
I told this to my mother, and she - possibly joking - said, “Be careful ... it has one more night to duck-walk down the hall in the darkness and exact complete and horrible revenge on you.” After so long - I couldn’t deny that it was a very likely possibility. We know each other well, that old machine and I.
The humorous aside here, though, actually comes in the form of another appliance. I got some new drip pans for my stovetop this weekend. My old ones were long past-due being replaced, and I finally remembered to grab some at the store. The ones that I always get, I might add. I got around to opening the package today - and eventually realized that they weren’t going to fit under my burners. After the old ones were gone, of course. The truth is, I wasted a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out why the new ones weren’t working - because, again, they were the pans I always get. I looked on the package, saw the brands that these pans wouldn’t work for, and then went back to work - trying to force the burners to fit on top. Suddenly, my own eyes snapped upward, and I realized - and it sunk in for the first time - what brand my stove was. And not only will these pans not work for it ... but it is the same brand as that old, decrepit washing machine. Wouldn’t you know. The odds are actually fairly slim. So now, I can’t use my stove until I replace these pans. Which may prove to be some fun.
Revenge beyond the grave is sweet indeed.
After cleaning behind and underneath the old washer and dryer last night in preparation for the new, Brian said to me, “Come on ... you know you’re going to miss her.” Firstly, I was quick to point out that ‘the beast’ was no she. Affectionately referred to by myself as Jugdish - a beast like that could only be a he. Secondly ... well, I rolled my eyes. Certain that I would never miss this thing that had caused me to contemplate therapy.
Oh, how wrong I was.
Because the truth is: I did shed a tear when I saw him ride away today - with the scrapyard in his future. Simply, I think, because he has been with us since the beginning. Truly - part of our history was casually being wheeled out the door. With an equal measure of memories, and aggravation. And, oh the memories. And, oh ... the aggravation.
Never did I dream that I would mourn his farewell.
In that moment, I thought of all the hours we’ve spent in one another’s company. All the antics that I cursed - quite literally and quite colorfully. It may take some getting used to - not being able to hear him from down the road. Or catching him duck-walk down the hall. His goldness. I may even miss the smell of burning rubber from time to time. Or the rust streaks on my clothing.
But more than anything, I think I’ll miss sitting Ammon on its side, so he can help me load him up. A task Amm will still help me with - but in a different way. I’ll miss Ammon covering its front with magnets ... and spending countless hours ‘fixing’ him with his tools.
Yes - in hindsight I shed a tear. Isn’t that the way it always works? You never realize just how much someone means, until they are no longer there. Me ... well. Maybe I spent a little too much time cursing Jugdish’s name.
The true downpour came when I remembered all the service that he rendered my family. When I truly did. All the memories and treasures that have gone in his drum. All the things I trusted with him - despite the antics. I remembered all the time we worked side by side washing countless tiny socks and burp cloths and swaddling blankets. All the onesies. Every tiny, sweet and pristine thing that I ever-so-carefully kept perfect for my special, precious child. I thought of all the spit-up he washed out. All the green beans. Every worn knee - blackened from crawling. Even though Jugdish can’t keep a thing clean now - I can’t help but remember how much he worked for me then, and how well. Granted, we both worked. And tirelessly. But I can never repay him. In truth - I am forever grateful.
I am so very thankful for this Mother’s Day gift. I don’t care that it is something that will make me work. It is a blessing - and will benefit my family. Immensely. As I reflect on my years with Jugdish - I look forward to this new start, and the opportunity for new memories with his replacement. Lucy, I’ve named her. I smile at the thought of all the stains she will beat out. Of the service she will bestow. And my heart hopes that she, too, will one day keep sweet things pure for me and mine.
But today, my laundry room will remain silent. A quiet reminder. Thank you, Jugdish. For you know it’s true. I’m going to miss you. My heart goes with you as you make this final journey.
Give ‘em heck.
