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No matter how you look at it, a relationship that lasts 37 years is a rarity these days.
So, I think I can be excused for feeling confused, somewhat lost, even bereft as I contemplate the end of our almost four decades together.
There is some guilt, I'll admit. I cannot help but ask myself: Could we have done something differently? Should we have called for help at the first sign that something was wrong?
Of course, it is now too late for remorse. I tell myself that I should take comfort in knowing that we did better than most, that we lasted as long as we did. And I have so many wonderful memories.
Times were tough at the beginning. There were all those moves, which took their toll: from Toronto, where we first got together, to Montreal, to Ottawa, back to Montreal, and once again to Ottawa, where we have been these past 25 years.
There were three wonderful children – and the years of diapers and toilet training, dance lessons, hockey, soccer, swimming, skiing, picnics, hiking in the Gatineaus. It was fun, yes, but a lot of work. Through it all, you never let me down.
So perhaps I can be forgiven for thinking it would always be that way. Sure, I heard the grumbling. At times the noise was so loud that the whole house seemed to shake. But I chalked that up to age. I could live with it.
Alas, it was not to be.
At first I didn't question the strange quiet in the house. I went to the basement to rotate the laundry, and was shocked by what I found. There was the tell-tale water in the drum of my trusty harvest gold Maytag washing machine.
I gently tried to coax the washer to the final spin cycle. The motor whirred but the drum did not move, not even a quiver. My washer's carefree days of filling, agitating and spinning were over. As Monty Python folks would say: The washer has passed on. It has ceased to be. Expired. Gone to meet its maker. This washer is a stiff. Bereft of life. Rests in peace. Kicked the bucket. Shuffled off its mortal coil.
Oh my god, I have an ex-washer, I thought. Better than that dead Norwegian blue parrot, nailed to its perch, some might remark.
True enough. But now what?
Call the Maytag repairman, but he seems to be an extinct breed. An all-brands appliance repairman arrives instead. He dismantles my harvest gold machine and solemnly announces the diagnosis: A frayed belt snapped and caused the gear to die.
Okay. Order the parts. Let's fix it. I don't care what it costs, I tell him.
Sorry, says he. They don't make them any more.
Then, with all the respect the machine deserves, he puts the pieces back together again and presents me with the bill.
That was three days ago. Since then, I have been washing my laundry by hand. It's hard work. The bath towels and the sheets are starting to smell.
My husband, with whom I have endured 43 years, suggests that we look into the kind of wringer-washer our grandmothers used. Perhaps we can find one at a vintage store, or on Kijiji.
We drive off to a major appliance store.
Peter, the salesman, listens to our tale of woe and, without emotion, tells us: Well, you'll be lucky if you get five years from your next washer. Some sales pitch.
In the end, we buy a new machine. It is white, not harvest gold, with an extended warranty that Peter says might help us to eke out a few more years of service. The new washer costs nearly three times the price of the original.
I pay with my credit card and remember, fondly, that in 1978 we took out a bank loan to buy that harvest gold Maytag. We had no credit cards back then. Come to think of it, we had no credit at all. The bank gave us what they frighteningly called a demand loan: Pay $100 every month or they would seize the washing machine and our firstborn child.
Now, in our eerily quiet house, we await Peter's call to tell us when the new washer will be arriving. It's got a dizzying range of choices – steam-cleaning, fresh-water rinse and dozens of combinations of soil levels, temperatures and fabric types. According to the manufacturer, our clothes will be cleaner and brighter than ever, and microbe- and bacteria-free.
Meanwhile, I strip the bed and toss the sheets and towels, the shirts and underwear, into laundry baskets and head to the laundromat.
I try to calm myself. It was just a clothes washer, only a machine. But I know better. Our 37 years together made for a lifetime of memories. The familiar pleasure of doing laundry with a dependable old friend is gone forever. I never thought it would end like this.
Martha Plaine lives in Ottawa.