I love the laundromat. I guess I love it because thankfully I don’t have to frequent it that often…only on the rare occasion when either my washer, dryer, or both gives up the ghost.

The first thing I love about the coin-op is, after you put your clothing into whatever machine is required, you make your way over to the vending machines. You take quarters from your pocket, purchase a can of diet Pepsi, a bag of chips and then you scout out one of those pale turquoise sculpted plastic seats to perch on while you enjoy your snack and wait for the machines to work their magic.

The second thing I love about the laundromat is the sound the washing machines make when they enter the spin cycle. You only hear that frenzied whirl in a laundromat where all they have are front load machines. It sounds like the washers are going to take flight…right out the plate glass windows.

The people in the laundromat are so interesting as well. You have your “regulars”. They’re the ones that live in apartments and don’t have a washer/dryer of their own. The regulars are willing to help you in any way they can. They know the drill. They are familiar with the machines that take your money for a 20 minute dry…but in actuality, only gives you 15 and a half minutes. They give you the lowdown on the washer on the left in the middle that will snarl your clothes without mercy and have your clothes emerge twenty four minutes later as if they went through the beaters of a Kitchen Aid mixer on high.

You have your vacation people…the ones who are just passing through with their hot and sticky kids in tow. These little ones are usually enjoying a bribe of a melting chocolate ice cream cone which is dripping down their shirts and onto their socks and sneakers. You can hear the mothers sigh as they realize that laundry on vacation doesn’t take a vacation.

Once, when living in North Carolina and having to visit the laundromat because ours was on the blink, I met a Sous-Chef from the Greystone Inn in Toxaway. Her previous career was Marine Biologist and then unexpectedly she became a cook on a small boat after her mother bragged to the crew about what great culinary potential she had. From there, she seriously studied the art of creating gastronomic delights and went on to work at the Greystone Inn. She confessed with her knowledge and bonding with ocean creatures, she still has trouble putting a lobster in the pot for the surf and turf entrees.

Her mom was at the laundromat too. She told us that her husband passed away a few years ago and now she lives with her daughter, the chef. She told me she does the laundry for the two of them and what a challenge it was to get some of the food stains out of the white coats that her daughter must wear when cooking. A lesson on laundry products was then proffered. Apparently, Oxyclean is the winner in making the coats whiter than white and taking out those pesky tomato sauce and gravy stains.

She went on to tell us that after the laundry was washed and dried, they were going to inspect the cabin that they own in Brevard. They were concerned about the cabin’s ability to weather the rain that has pelted the area in the past week. The shanty was 90 years old and had been in the family for as long. “It needs work”,  they lamented,  “but we can’t bear to part with it.” It was all about family and tradition for them.

Our dryers ticked down to zero minutes and soon we were both folding our clothing. We said our goodbyes and parted ways; she with her gleaming white chef coats and me with my not so white sheets and towels.

I made a note to pick up some Oxyclean next time I’m at the food store.

Years ago, we were hooked on a TV series called Ballykissangel that we got from Netflix.

The first series had numerous episodes…and the characters became like family. We enjoyed their antics and we shared in their disappointments. We laughed at the ridiculous things that happened and we were overjoyed at the weddings and births. But we also mourned the death in the show of one of the main characters. It was totally unexpected and we sat dazed – shocked that the writers literally brought that character to an untimely demise.

After the funeral, all the friends gathered on a hillside to remember thoughts or funny stories about their friend who died. It was a typical Irish wake with the singing, poetry and drink.

One man recited the following poem by Yeats and I just thought it was so beautiful I wanted to share it with you.

A few years ago,  Allan and I attended a financial luncheon.  We were listening to the conclusion of the presentation while eating our lunch when a woman arrived without her husband…45 minutes late.  She sat at our table and whispered to me “Has he discussed transfer of death benefits yet?”

I looked at her with my fork poised in mid-air.  45 minutes late, asking about the transfer of death benefits, and no husband with her. Hmmmm.

I thought her next question would be “And where can I pick up some Hefty bags and a bottle of bleach?”

When one of our sons and his wife were in the process of cleaning out their apartment and throwing a lot of stuff out in preparation for the move to their new home, they decided that their old garbage can needed to be tossed…it was cracked and in ill repair. They put it out with the garbage only to return from work to find the garbage can still standing alongside the cans that they wished to keep. The same thing happened at the next garbage day. And the next. The garbage can goes out…with nothing in it…only to still be there when they return.

So the question is, how DOES one get rid of a garbage can? Short of getting out a chainsaw and slicing it into little pieces, that trash can is destined to stay on the curb and not become landfill somewhere in New Jersey, (because we all know everything winds up in New Jersey including Jimmy Hoffa.) The garbage men have a job to do and they take it very seriously. They do not want to take a garbage can by mistake and toss it into the crusher. They don’t want the residents running down the block after the garbage truck screaming “Bring that back! That’s my garbage can!! Okay, so it’s cracked and there’s no bottom in it, but hey, it still has a purpose in life!!”

So my advice was to just put that trashcan out on moving day at its place of honor on the curb, maybe with a sign attached “Pick Me!  Pick Me!”and drive away slowly. Maybe someone needs to invent a new concept…the disposable trash can.

Our friends in Florida all have porches that they call lanais (pronounced la-ni with a long i sound on the “ni”)

It is such a lovely sounding exotic word, even though it just means a porch…either enclosed or open air.

We have a glass and screen enclosed back porch here in Bethlehem, and I told Allan I was going to start using the word lanai when referring to it.

“Sweetheart, please show the guests to the lanai”. “Be a dear and put the martinis out on the lanai”. “I think I’ll take my lemonade and magazines out to the lanai”. “If anyone calls, I will be napping on the lanai”.

Allan retorted “She was found strangled…on the lanai”.

I’m beginning to realize “Porch” is a delightful word as well.

I was having a glass of wine while reading a friend’s blog and one article on it that was brought to my attention… “Does Happiness Come With Age?”

According to the article…”people start out at age 18 feeling pretty good about themselves, and then, apparently, life begins to throw curve balls. They feel worse and worse until they hit 50. At that point, there is a sharp reversal, and people keep getting happier as they age. By the time they are 85, they are even more satisfied with themselves than they were at 18.”

In the survey, people over the age of 50 were asked whether they experienced the following emotions during a large part of the day yesterday: Enjoyment, happiness, stress, worry, anger, sadness. And apparently, those of us over the age of 50 shouted “Yes, by God! Enjoyment and happiness! Yesterday was a great day!” But, we conveniently leave off the “I think so at least…from what I can remember.”

Well…it’s good to know that it’s all uphill from here. All delirious delight and enchanting elation. All euphoric excitement and blissful beatitude.

But then again, that just might be the wine talking.

As a former New Yorker I have to say, when someone rings your doorbell and you are alone in the house, you usually:

a. Pretend you don’t hear the bell
b. Go to the window and peek out and see who’s there just in case you have to identify them later in a lineup
c. Request that the person shows twenty forms of ID…from their driver’s license and passport to their baby hospital pics and their 9th grade junior high school graduation photo, produce a list of all the medicines they are currently taking, a document of any previous surgery experiences and an assurance validated and signed by their doctor that they have not spent more than a year in a mental facility. It is also helpful to check out their DinersClub Card, cause, hey you never know.

Needless to say, you didn’t open the door to a stranger if you were home alone. You always would read about the good Samaritan who opened the front door to the stranger who claimed their car broke down while on their way to the Mayo Clinic to donate a kidney and half their liver to their dying cousin and they therefore needed to use the phone to call the hospital and explain the delay. While the kind homeowner was fetching the phone for the visitor, the stranger’s “partners in crime” would be sneaking into the back door and carting out the plasma TVs.

Well, we lived in the mountains of Connestee and it had been raining there. Allan was out at a meeting and my doorbell rang. I looked out to see a little elderly lady standing at the door totally drenched and holding three books and a board game in her hands.

“May I come in and use your phone?” she queried, seeing me through the screen door. (Mental note #1: Remember to close inside door when Allan isn’t here!) . “I was walking home from the clubhouse library and got caught in the rain and need to call someone to pick me up. My grandchildren are visiting and I stopped at the library to pick up some things to keep them amused and on my way home, all of a sudden, it started to downpour!”

Now, being a New Yorker, I am embarrassed to admit, I looked her up and down as various scenarios played through my brain. Hmmm…she says she was walking home from the clubhouse. That in and of itself is a feat since the mountain roads were quite strenuous to navigate on foot. I don’t recognize her, so that tells me she didn’t live on my road. It also tells me that this little lady is no doubt in good physical condition as she is quite a distance from her home if, in fact, she actually lived in Connestee. Will she tackle me the minute I turn my back to procure the phone for her?

And those books that were in her hands. Was she carrying them to use as weapons if I didn’t move fast enough when she demanded my jewelry and my aunt Audrey’s Rice Charlotte recipe? Had there been any reports of break ins in the neighborhood as of late? (Actually, in all the years we’d lived there…we’d only heard of one!!) And wait…forget the books. Maybe she actually HAD a weapon…perhaps a knife or a gun hidden underneath those book decoys. (I’d been watching too much CSI).

And what about that board game she was toting. Clue? I mean really. Was she playing that in her spare time to hone in on her skills? I could just see the headlines…The murder was committed by Mrs. Elderly Lady, with a book, in the parlor near the telephone!

I decided I could take her if need be, no matter what, even if she did walk the roads of Connestee, since I had been working out myself and heck, I walked those roads too. Okay, I’m huffing and puffing after the first two miles, but nonetheless. (Allan later said when I told him the story, that I’m so buff, had she tried to shoot me I could have probably grabbed the bullet in my teeth and yelled…”Yeah??? What else have ya got?!!”)

So, I let her in and not only offered her the phone, but offered her a cup of coffee and a towel to dry off with. After a phone call to her home with no one answering, I told her I would drive her home myself. We dashed into the car in the pouring rain and off we went.

Anyway, I came home and thought to myself…it’s so nice that we lived in a community where all you have to do is walk up and ring someone’s bell…and you know you’ve got a friend.

And since I was a New Yorker (and probably always will be in my heart), Mental note #2: Now I know where she lives!!

You know your old when you have to enter your birth year online and you spin that thing like you’re on the Price is RIght!

We were driving in the car today when I spotted a license plate that read “IGH!” Allan thought it might mean “In God’s Hands!”. I volunteered it might mean “I Got Hammered” But actually, that would require two exclamation points.

A few years ago, a friend emailed me a poignant story about a man who was playing his violin in the Washington Metro on January 12, 2007. Everyone passed him by as they rushed on to work and went about their business. A few passerbys tossed some coins into the till but kept on walking. Children lingered to hear the music, but they were prodded to move along by their parents and even though they would look back to try to capture the music in their heads, soon they too disappeared out of sight.

As it happens, the violinist was Joshua Bell, and he played in that L’Enfant Plaza Station for 45 minutes. He played six classical pieces on his handcrafted Stradivarius – the same pieces that he had played three days earlier in Boston Symphony Hall, where the tickets were pricey and where folks dressed to the nines to hear a concert by such an icon.

That day in the subway, he collected a mere pittance for his talent. The people didn’t know who he was nor did they care.

Are we also walking through the subways of life not really seeing or hearing? What better way to start this new year then to take the time to truly savor life and the beauty that surrounds us. In doing so, we too might find virtuosos in the most unlikely of places.