Washing

I'm sitting outside the Fall Creek Laundromat in Ithaca. It's nice out so I've dragged a chair outside and I've got my feet propped up on a railroad tie that I presume is there to stop cars. I'm using someone in the neighborhood's wifi. Thanks!

It's a nice, clean laundromat with classic rock playing not too loud from a radio somewhere. There are a number of top and front load washers and reasonably new looking dryers with digital displays. At the moment there are two other people, one young woman and one woman closer to my age. It's 10:00 on Saturday night and the few people who've walked by have been very friendly, including the loudly singing mid-teens girls and the drunk guys looking for a water fountain. They may have even told me to "Enjoy!" as everyone else around here seems to say constantly.

So why am I doing this? Easy. I volunteered. My daughter finished her music program (the concert where the kids played and sang was remarkably good- way beyond even the best high school orchestra, band or chorus I've seen) and is off to camp in the morning. Since camp is sort of on the way home from Ithaca, it seemed silly to drive all the way home and then all the way back, so we're staying here an extra night and the laundry must be done. Since the ladies are busy repacking and whatever else, I volunteered to come out and spend an hour doing the wash.

Don't get me wrong. This is serious business. My wife consideres herself something of a laundry expert and I have no reason to disbelieve her. In fact, I'm honored that she trusted me to do this without giving me extremely detailed instructions. So hopefully I don't screw anything up- oversuds the machine, burn the delicates to a crisp- that kind of thing. So far so good. And it's a beautiful night and I'm content sitting right here.