For over ten years, we’ve been having our laundry done in the community laundry room by our housekeeper/helper Ann. Now that I have recovered, I can do the laundry myself, but I sure don’t want to spend time in the laundry room. So we’ve had a washer/dryer installed in our walk-in closet. Where we had to make room for it.
For a week Ernie and I spent time sorting through stuff, deciding what to donate to the Treasure Sale, what to put in our storage locker, and what to trash. A lot of stuff is gone, gone, gone.
Here’s part of one load, including the laundry cart, for the Treasure Sale. Volunteers came and got it.
Last week the installation process began. First came the electrician who left this:
holes in our entry-way and closet, plus the receptacle for the power to the appliance. Notice the lower shelf: it had to be cut back to where the clothes are hanging. Then came the plumber, who left this:
water, good to flow. Next came the drywall technician to patch the holes:
He was followed by the painter, who spackled as well as painted, leaving this, and considerable mess that I cleaned up, in our hallway over the weekend. This hole outside our apartment must have been for the plumbing.
On Monday, the painter was back.
He was listening to Fresh Air, by the way.
Monday afternoon, the mechanic-installer arrived with the washer/dryer. As he uncrated it in the hallway, he drew a crowd of our neighbors, and he was supervised by the man who lives next door and is legally blind.
Before he could move it into our closet, he had to cut the metal shelving to make room for it.
Then back to the hall to get the washer/dryer on his dolly. It took several heaves. I offered to help, but he declined.
And neatly through the door:
through my room, and into the closet.
Ernie and I spent a couple of hours, re-organizing the closet before calling it quits last evening.
The painter returned today, Tuesday, to finish the patching. He even re-hung our pictures. Et, voila:
I am now an independent woman—as far as the laundry goes!