With a hard turn to the left, I heard the squeak of the heavy wooden door as it opened. 

“We’ve got loads to do today, Reen.” said my usually quiet and unassuming father.

He grinned at me as we entered the small but unique brick building that once housed a variety store (the seven-eleven of yesteryear). The quiet, dank environment would come to life with a flip of a switch. Soon I will hear the magic of swishing sudsy water and the whirling of hot air coming from towering dryers I can barely reach. Massive rolling cloth bins would ultimately be lined up near the folding table where the thick brown paper could be pulled from a lengthy roll, and its fresh and clean contents would be tied with twine like a Christmas present soon to be retrieved.

It was early July at 7:45 am, and the heat was already stifling. We had to get there early because my dad had a rule of success that he impressed on his many children. Do your job well and get there 10 minutes early and leave 10 mins late. Eventually, someone will notice. He did precisely that, and it was his business.

Eventually, customers would trickle in with their ticket numbers to claim their clean and folded laundry.  In the background, I hear my dad yell over the rhythmic noise, “You’re on the cash register today, Reen.”

This magical place is where I learned so many life lessons, and I was only 11 years old.

I learned to count money and make change. More importantly, I learned the value of a dollar and its relation to purchasing power. I didn’t get paid, but my great aunt, the only full-time employee, would hand me a five-dollar bill at the end of the week. That was much more than she could afford, and from that gesture, I learned generosity and appreciation.

I learned tenacity, not in folding clothes but when I was taught to fold a fitted sheet.

I gained self-esteem when I was rewarded for my efforts, often that was breakfast with just my dad and me at the local diner. He never knew about the “tips” I received from the aunt I adored.

I gleaned that the world was made up of people very different from my family and myself. That disparity was evident in cloth baby diapers. I saw crisp white soiled diapers, and I witnessed diapers that looked like they were in the Civil War. Similarly, I viewed adult underwear, and it also could be tattered and torn or beautiful and bright.

I learned about the fragility of life when my mom helped out one scorching July day. She and my aunt were held up at gunpoint, but the kid got nothing because the cash was in mom’s shoe as they were forced to the ground. The brazen kid took off with only coins from the register and a really bad attitude.

I observed resilience when my dad came to work just days after surgery. He left the laundromat for a doctor’s appointment, his first post-op visit. I asked how it went. My dad humbly said, “He told me I could go back to work next week.”

Horrified, I exclaimed, “Dad, you’ve been back at work for almost two weeks!”

“I know, that’s what I told him, and I have mouths to feed.”

I witnessed sadness and loss when the neighborhood declined, and my dad had to make a difficult decision. While taking me to work with him many years later as a nurse, we passed by the laundromat. For the second time that summer, a large bullet went thru the big-picture window and shattered much of the glass.

I burst into tears and pleaded with him, “Dad, it’s too dangerous. You have to let it go. You don’t need a full-time job and a side business. Please sell it or close it!”

He did several months later; only after constant pleading from all of us. That is how I witnessed perseverance. He also showed me the art of letting go when he realized the declining neighborhood had won the battle.

I still dream about the place that taught me just about everything I needed to know in life.

It was hot and loud, but I loved it, and it made me much of who I am today.

I also recognized over that long hot summer of 1963 that life is about choices, and I liked the nice underwear!