tumbling tot at the laundromat

a true story

 

          One of my quite vivid memories involves my mom, my baby sister Kaye and me making our weekly Laundromat run in Richmond when we stationed there by the Navy.  Being “po folk” Navy, we lived in NCO housing that looked like barracks and could boast of no laundry facilities, just lots of stairs, thin walls and tiny rooms.  So we hauled our laundry to the base dependants’ Laundromat; we returned with still wet laundry to be sorted and starched before being hung on the rows and rows of clotheslines behind the apartments.

One extremely cold morning, Mom was huffing and puffing down and back up the stairs, carrying down baskets of laundry and soap, trudging back up to bundle Kaye and me up before we headed back down.  I was almost four, and Kaye was almost a year old.  With the determination only my mom can summon, Mom was encasing Kaye in a “hand-me-down” snow suit that obviously was made for life in the frozen tundra.  Eventually Kaye was encased in overalls of thick dark brown wool, followed by a fully skirted little coat that buttoned up almost to her nose and finished by a helmet-like hat with thick earflaps.  She was practically rendered immobile by all that thick wool.

          Leaving the third-floor apartment, Mom had Kaye perched on one hip, her purse over the other shoulder and a rather shabby brown beret clamped firmly on her head; her running dialog to me as we negotiated the stairs consisted of:

 

“Hold onto the banister, Annette. Pay attention to what you’re doing.  Don’t try too fast, and stop it, stop it, you’re not going down on your butt.  Stand up and be careful.”

 

Only now do I understand the joys of motherhood.

 

Needless to say, Mom was close to exhausted just by this preparation. So when she realized that the car’s windows were frosted over, a sincerely felt expletive was blurted out before she caught herself.  I figured it was my job to act as if I had not heard.  I was rubber-necking at the amazing whiteness of everything.  I asked “Mom, is this snow?”

Poor Mom.

“No,” she snapped, “it’s not snow, but I still have to get it off the windows before I can drive the damned car. Now open the back door and get in so I can put Kaye up beside you,”

No reply necessary.   So I opened the car door and scrambled to the far side of the wide bench seat.  Mom plunked Kaye down and shut the door with a sweeping motion of her arm that telegraphed her frustration. I do not remember what Mom found to remove the frost, but I do remember the aggressive scraping motions and her quietly muttered monologue as she worked.

Meanwhile Kaye was having a jolly time in her brown snowsuit; she resembled one of those toy balls that cannot sit still.  Her round diaper-clad bottom and the stiff wool of the snowsuit literally turned her into a roly-poly bug.  She giggled and flailed her wool-sleeved arms to enhance the entertainment.

Upon finally clearing the windows so she could see, Mom threw herself behind the wheel.  The car was an old one, with huge balloon tires, a tiny oval back window, a backseat area the size of Alcatraz (and sometimes just as much fun) and an engine unaccustomed to frost in Richmond CA. But at last the car roared to life and our trek to the laundromat commenced.

The frost had turned all the roofs white; the grass was white as were the roadways.  We were about halfway there when Mom made a wide right turn (those old cars had the turning radius of a Greyhound bus) in an area of warehouses, and I heard a mysterious series of clicks and felt a blast of cold air.  I realized that Kaye was no longer sitting beside me.

“Mommy!” I screamed, “Katie fell outta the car!” I jumped up to look out the back window and saw a little brown wool bundle tumbling along the roadside.

          After a quick glance to the back, Mom slammed on the brakes, shoving the gearshift into park.  She threatened me with bodily injury if I moved from the back seat.  I believed.  She jumped from the car and ran back to Kaye.  I can only imagine her horror of what she might find.  And since Dad was a medic at the base hospital, the prospect of rushing to the hospital and explaining how his fragile little blue-eyed red-headed diva fell out of the car was not an experience she relished.

I saw Mom scoop up the brown wool bundle; Mom was crying and her rapid breathing caused halos of clouds around their heads. I saw Kaye’s tiny mittened hand reach towards Mom’s face to touch her tears.

Mom slowly carried Kaye back to the car as I waited breathlessly.  Silently Mom gently deposited Kaye on the seat (closer to me this time), and she sank to her knees on that cold white pavement sobbing.  Moments later she regained her composure.

“Kaye’s not hurt,” Mom’s voice quavered just a bit.  Kaye looked up at me and grinned like she had just ridden a ferris wheel.

“Y’know, I think this laundry can wait. Let’s go home.”

Which is indeed what we did, leaving the baskets of laundry in the car’s trunk. Mom toted Kaye up to the third floor and I followed.

The rest of the day we spent eating cinnamon toast, drinking cocoa and watching old Bette Davis and Olivia DeHaviland movies on TV.  Then we napped.

When Dad came home from his watch, Mom related the story as clearly as she could, trying avoid sobbing again.  Being a medic Dad confirmed Kaye was none the worse for wear.  He tenderly comforted my mother, assuring her it was not her fault, but the car’s.  He patted my head, greatly relieving my unspoken fears that it was my fault.

Kaye received a lot of extra attention for the next few days, and she milked it for all it was worth.  Years later, suffering through my sister’s truly savage teenage years, after one particularly wracking episode, I remember Mom muttering bitterly that she should have left her on the road in Richmond.

 

Reviews

[Pryde Foltz]

Annie this was wonderful. As a mother, you had me laughing and gasping at the same time. I was reminded of the snowsuit story scenes from the Christmas Story, but this far surpassed its humour. Great, great piece. I don't usually grade, but your getting a 99.

[annie lee]

Thank you, Pryde. Although I had not even started kindergarten that time, this episode is a vivid memory. My sister died in 2006, so I wanted to write this down.

[Pryde Foltz]

I am sorry for your loss, Annie. She would be honoured with this write.

[Frieda P]

I don't usually read stories here but for some reason I was compelled to read this one, it's just what I needed. What a great story teller you are, and what a delightful story, thankfully it ended happily.

Mom was encasing Kaye in a “hand-me-down” snow suit that obviously was made for life in the frozen tundra.

I had to laugh out loud at that line, those snowsuits are so burdensome, the kids are stiff as a board in them and can't move their limbs, probably what saved her from being hurt in the first place. Thanks for sharing this one annie lee.

[annie lee]

Thank you, Frieda. My sister passed from primary pulmonary hypertension in 2006, and I wanted to save this memory.

[Frieda P]

So sorry to hear annie lee, I know that pain, I'm so glad you shared your memory of her with us here, thank you.