Vesuvius

At Bellingham High School, the stereotypical gender pathway in the 70s was always the same; enter the school through the main doors, pass the main office following the hallway down between the auditorium and counselor’s offices. Upon reaching the next crossing hallway, the girls turn left walking north. The guys turn right or continue straight out the east end of the building. The girls were going to Home Economics and the boys to Industrial Arts.

Very simply, girls did not take woodworking, welding, or auto mechanics and boys did not take Home-Economics. Therefore, unless taught by a parent, girls did not know how to change a tire, and boys could not sew on a button or boil water.

No one ever thought, “hey, maybe the guys would like to learn to cook and the women should learn how to change a tire.” The school just did not encourage “the sexes” to cross over.

(These two lovely women below were some of the many Home Economics instructors during the 70s at BHS.)

That was the way it was, and I accepted the fact that I did not know how to work my mom’s sewing machine. I certainly had no clue as to how to bake bread or plan for a party of ten for supper.

I know that I was at a distinct disadvantage when I left home for college at age eighteen and realized that mom was not taking care of me anymore. As I walked with my parents out to my “loaded-to-the-gills” Chevy Vega to depart for Idaho, mom said to me, “There is a box of Tide in the car.  Don’t bring a car full of dirty clothes home at Christmas.”

Ok. Washing clothes. How hard could that be? I was soon to find out.

It was my first week on campus. A scary, homesick, first week. I spent the time that I was not in class, driving around the city of Nampa because of the freedom of having a car. My activity for the first Saturday was washing my clothes. I could have done it at my dorm, but I thought for an adventure, I would find a real laundromat. And sure enough, after driving down the back streets of the town I eventually found one.

It was a busy day for washing clothes. Most of the machines were being used. There was a bustle of mostly Hispanic women talking loudly in Spanish while folding their dried clothing. I was the only male, and I understood no Spanish. The laundromat manager was a 30-something white woman who was busy smoking a cigarette while sitting on a stool in the back corner. She eyed me suspiciously.

Walking between the whirling washers, I found one that was unused and quickly tossed my clothes inside. It was a front-load washer. There was a small lid on the top for dumping the detergent. I opened my new box of Tide powder. There was no measuring cup inside. You would think it would come with a cup I thought. Oh well, I remembered that I had a coffee mug in my car, so I ran out and brought it in. I set the mug on the top of the washer and poured the powder in until it was full. I then dumped the cup into the top of the machine. Just to make sure, I added a half cup more because my gym clothes were smelly. I then deposited three quarters, pushed the preferred wash cycle knobs, and watched the machine come to life.

It was a sunny, warm fall day. Since all the chairs and stools were taken in the laundromat, I walked outside and sat on a street bench to read some school literature.

There was a time in middle school when for a science fair, I made a paper mache volcano. The lava was made from food dye, baking soda, and vinegar.  I was responsible for explaining how a volcano erupts.

Dumping the red-dyed vinegar into the mouth of my volcano, which had previously been filled with baking soda, caused a foaming reaction from carbon dioxide gas. Foam belched from the volcano’s mouth giving the illusion of a lava flow.

I named my volcano Vesuvius, a mountain which was quite a hit around the city of Pompeii in 79 AD. My volcano earned me accolades at the science fair. Not so much at the laundromat.

The Spanish conversations had been at a consistent volume level as I sat outside. It soon became apparent that something was happening inside because the volume grew louder and the speech faster with a few voices beginning to scream. Almost immediately a woman ran from the entrance yelling at me in Spanish and flailing her arms, motioning for me to come inside.

As I came into the doorway, I had flashbacks of Vesuvius. The detergent lid on the top of my machine had been pushed open and soap suds were being pumped out the top, flowing off the machine onto the floor and into the drains. The drainpipes were now also filled with soap and suds were being pushed up through the floor grates.

The laundromat customers were scrambling to get their clean, folded clothes, and children to higher ground. The manager was running around directing traffic and trying to divert the flow of suds. It appeared that she had drilled for a disaster like this. It was also evident that she knew the suds were coming from my machine.

“You newbie college boys! How much soap did you put in the machine?” she yelled.

“Just a cup and a half. Was that too much?” I asked, staying a safe distance from her mop handle.

“A cup and a half of Tide powder detergent? Are you kidding me? Did they teach you that in Home-Economics?”

“Boys don’t take Home-Economics. I took Industrial Arts,” I told her. It was obvious to me that she did not know the stigma associated with boys taking Home-Economics.

She manually drained my machine of the overly soapy water and put the clothes in the rinse cycle. She then handed me a dustpan to begin scooping suds into a large sink. If she were truthful, I think she would have to admit that the same thing had happened more than once when a teenage boy brought clothes into her laundromat. Really it was her own fault for not being more wary and requiring that any male first produce a Home-Economics completion card.

In the weeks that followed, I elected to do my clothes in the basement laundry room in my boy’s dorm where there was evidence of previous high water suds stains on the walls. Someone had even drawn a pencil line on the sheet rock and added the words, “March 1969, High Suds Record.”

In the years to follow, I have experienced ire from both my mom and my wife for the handicap of being a male.

When Cheryl yells angrily:

“You shrunk my sweater again!”

“You dyed all the white clothes pink when you threw your shop rags in the load!”

“Don’t touch my sewing machine again! It will take me a week to get that bobbin thread untangled!”

“It has never in the history of pancakes ever taken nine bowls to make batter. Open the windows or that smoke alarm will never go off!”

“Didn’t your mom teach you anything?”

“That shirt doesn’t go with those pants unless you’re trying to look like a circus clown. Oh cripes! Where did you get those socks!”

The only reasonable response I have is: “I never took Home-Economics in school. I took Industrial Arts.”

You can get away with a lot by blaming the educational system.

Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes