Walking up the narrow cinder block steps to grandma’s house, I’d hear the creak of the back screen door as I pulled it open, hoping not to fall off the steps. Yes, that creak was like a doorbell. Grandma knew I was there…not quite in the kitchen, the door opened into a small vestibule leading into the tiny ‘foyer room’ where the old refrigerator welcomed me. To the left was a doorway. There were steep rickety wooden steps leading down to the stone-walled basement.
Dark, dank and chilly, I’d sit on the wooden steps watching Grandma do the day’s wash. Wringing out the wet clothes through the ringer. She had a distinct technique. Hand wringing first, then threading everything from panties to sheets through the tight spinning drums. She’d laugh, look up at me peering through her spectacles that were perched in the middle of her big nose and tell me she didn’t want to ‘get her titty caught in the ringer! It always made me laugh. Across from this cellar door was the opening to the big kitchen.