Wash Room

As I grew, so did my curiosity.

"Pop Pop," I asked, pointing to the rubber hose that fed from the
washer, along the shelf, and out the window. "Why'd you do that."

He turned from searching for string in the white metal cabinets on the
other side of the window. The washroom, which was an area between the
door from the garage and the base of the steps leading to the kitchen,
always seemed to be dimly lit. Opposite the washer and dryer were more
white cabinets filled with snacks, usually chips, Oreos, or coconut
cookies. Next to that sat a tall metal tank that Pop Pop called the
'water heater.' Only one light bulb hung on the open joists at the
ceiling with a small string pull chain hanging down above the ironing
board below the window. Usually Nancie's drying cloths hung on the rod
that separated most of the wash room from the rest of the garage
level. The whole area was about the size of the upstairs bathroom.

"That's so the water from the washer doesn't go down the drain," he
said, stepping over and adjusting the duct tape spread across the base
of the window, sealing the rubber hose between the sill and glass.
"That way all that water doesn't go into the septic tank."

I had always wondered about the black hose that ran from the window,
across the back sidewalk, and down into the yard behind the garden. I
hadn't seen that at any other house I'd ever been to.

When the washer drained, and I saw the arched gush of soapy water
spring up from the grass in the backyard, I would always run over to
it and run my hand through its warm stream. White soap residue and
little bits of lint outlined the discharge area with fan-shaped
patches of pushed grass. Sometimes the soap would bubble and build up
into small cloud-like blobs--which I quickly smacked or kicked away
into hundreds of smaller bubbles, floating and disappearing across the
lawn.