It is a nice, rainy day when the dryer stops working. Well,
it isn't that it actually stopped working: a strong smell of
gas fills the small bathroom cum laundry room, even with the
window open, and the gas tap had to be closed. An American
dryer without a gas supply is as good as broken.
Where is my portable laundry rack for hanging clothes inside
in such an emergency?
Oh, no one brought it in from the roof deck when the rainy
season started. I peer out of our porch door. There it is, at
the far end of our roof deck.
I go downstairs, put on my overcoat, pull the hood over my
snood, and climb back up the steps, through the rain, now
pelting even harder.
I bring in the clothes rack and see that my hand has turned
orange -- from the rusted top of the rack. How could it rust
so fast? The clothespins still attached to it are brittle,
one breaks in my hands, a second pinches my finger before it
snaps. I look at the metalic clotheslines, once white, now a
dark rust brown.
Despite the rain, I take it straight down the fifty steps to
the garbage, this time with my umbrella in my second hand. My
husband comes home from shul.
"Hey, Ruth, can you believe that I'm down to the last pair of
socks in the drawer?"
"Yes, dear. All the rest are in the dryer."
"Still?"
"Still, because the dryer isn't working."
"It was working the other day..."
"You smelled that gas, didn't you? I had to turn it off. And
I don't understand how, but the portable clothes rack got
rusty and I..."
"...so what are you telling me? We need a new rack? A
new...?"
"Um-hmmm," I nod as he dolefully sips his Earl Grey tea.
After breakfast, we go down to the market to get a new
portable clothes rack.
"Did you call the gas company?"
"The phone isn't working. Did you pay the bill?"
He crinkles his brow. "Tell you what -- I'll call the gas
company and the phone company on my way into town." (Neither
of us has a cell phone.) "You carry this home, okay?"
I carry the rack home, the rain trickling down its plastic
cover. Once home, I peel off the wet plastic and set up the
rack in the children's room. What did I do wrong? It
collapses within a minute. I thought a child could get this
straight. I lift it from the floor -- arms, legs, -- which
are which, and I try again, counting to sixty. This time it
stays up. I hang the Shabbos shirts on hangers on the lines.
I can't find the clothes pins for the socks and have no
energy to go out again in the downpour to buy or borrow
some.
A couple of hours later, my husband returns.
"I couldn't get hold of the gas company. But we should be
getting the phone back within twenty-four hours."
I go to a neighbor and call the gas company. To my great
surprise, as well as relief, they say they will send a
technician the same day. Will they be as good as their
word?
While I'm peeling carrots, pondering this question, hoping
that the technician will indeed turn up at my door today, my
teenage son walks through it.
"Hi!"
"Hi, honey. You're home from yeshiva? Oh, of course, they let
you out on Sunday afternoon because you were there for
Shabbos. How was your week?"
My son answers with one of those monosyllables so typical of
teenagers, turns and stomps up the stairs with a large
backpack of his week's laundry.
"The dryer's not working, honey."
He stops on the step, turns to look at me. "So how am I
supposed to dry a pile of stuff in this wet weather and get
back to yeshiva for maariv?"
Shall I tell him the technician should arrive later this
afternoon? But what if he fails to show up as promised? What
if my raising his hopes leads to his frustration -- and
increases mine? What if he misses his bus back to yeshiva
because I told him...
While these questions carouse through my mind, my doorbell
rings. I usher in the technician; my son disappears up the
steps.
With one sniff, he says, "Lady, I smell gas."
"I turned off the gas supply to the dryer upstairs. That's
the problem."
"No, no -- down here. That's a gas stove, isn't it?" he says,
pointing to my range which he can see through the kitchen
door.
I nod.
"Mind if I take a look?"
He walks straight over to it, pulls it out from its place
against the wall, fiddles, checks the gas pipe and
disconnects it.
"This stove has an internal gas leak, geveret, and
that's dangerous. You could have an explosion..."
"G-d forbid!" I interject.
"Well, either get it fixed or get a new stove. How old is
this, anyway?"
The stove has been in our house for as long as we have:
twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of roast chicken, cakes,
kugels and soups race through my mind at that moment. I know
the stove is on its last legs; only two of its four burners
still work and the automatic lighting function long deceased.
And how many times have we repaired the thermostat? But after
twenty-five years, is it indeed worth fixing? That could cost
as much as half the price of a new one.
This technician has come to me like the kohen of old,
who would come to a house and proclaim, "Tomei,
tomei!" His proclamation has changed the status: up to
this point, the stove, like the house, was in full use. From
the time of the proclamation, neither could be used.
Thank Hashem we caught it in time! Thank Hashem for a broken
dryer!
Today is Sunday. I'll push the thought of how I'll cook for
Shabbos out of my head. By Thursday, hopefully, we'll find a
solution. Maybe we'll have it fixed by then -- or -- dare I
imagine it -- have a new stove?
"Can you come upstairs and look at the dryer?" I ask. After
all, I've called him for that. My Shabbos tablecloths and my
husband's socks still lie wet inside it.
He goes up the steps. Even though I've closed the gas tap,
the smell of gas is still strong. I leave him to check and
repair the problem.
After some minutes, he returns downstairs.
"I just replaced the pipe, lady. That's taken care of. Wish
the same could be done for your stove, but the problem is
inside."
And before I can offer him a cup of tea (thankfully, I have
an electric kettle and the electricity is working), he is
gone and I remain counting the blessings of my non-functional
stove.
[Sequel next week]
