The only way one could do the laundry in the projects was in the basement, a place I called the dungeon.

It was dark with one flickering fluorescent light and no natural light. The two windows had iron grates that darkened the room even more. There was an overpowering musty smell, and the warm weather dampened the walls and made them cold in the winter.

There were 4 large front loading washing machines, although all four never worked at the same time.

One or two were broken down, and at times the machine did not spin dry, and I had to wring out the clothes by hand and carry the wet clothes home two blocks away.

The floors were often wet from a leaking machine. I put too much detergent in one washing machine on my first trip there, and it exploded in bubbles. The bubbles covered the machine, poured onto the floor, and kept on spreading. I had a vision of myself drowning in a sea of soap and bubbles. At least when they found me, I would be extra clean.

The laundry had no dryers. In the projects, you hung your wash in fenced enclosed areas with clotheslines or, in the winter, dried them on the radiators in your apartment.

Having watched movie creatures like giant spiders and swamp monsters, I was terrified of the dungeon expecting to be grabbed by any of the monsters that lived in my nine-year-old mind.

Hearing heavy footsteps coming down the basement stairs, I backed into a dark corner, eyes closed tight, expecting to be the appetizer of some grotesque creature.

"You here, girlie?"

Standing in the doorway was a heavy-set woman wearing a flowered housecoat, which I later found was her dress of choice.

"You here, Girlie? Come on out," she called out again.

I stepped away from the corner and into the light.

"There you are. I came down to keep you company. Come over here; I promise not to bite."

"I watch you come and go from my window, trying to carry that heavy laundry bag."

"You are the only one who comes down here, so I thought you might like some company."

Her name was Gertie. She always wore moccasins on her very swollen feet regardless of the weather, with nylon stockings folded down around her ankles. Her cigarette of choice was Camels, and she always had a pack tucked in her housecoat pocket. Her white hair was tucked into a dark hairnet.

Gertie never came to do laundry but just sat, smoked and talked. She became my self-appointed sage offering me life tips like:

"Get yourself a man with an education, like a mechanic or plumber. My Henry was a janitor; always brought his pay home straight to the kids and me."

"When you grow up, get a washing machine."

"Don't listen to the nuns; they do not know nuttin."

I was and am not a great conversationalist. But that did not matter to Gertie as she brought me through the joy and pain of her childhood, children's birth, and when she lost her husband. Every so often, she would stop in the middle of her biography to ask me a question or ask me for my opinion.

"Do you want to go to college?"

"I don't know."

"My daughter wants me to come live with her in New Hampshire; what do you think?"

"No, stay here."

I realize now that she was trying to draw me out to speak more often. Since I did not have to put coins in the machines, I sometimes washed the clothes twice just so Gertie would stay longer. I stretched a half-hour wash to an hour or more.

When Summer rolled around, I left to spend six weeks at my cousin's farm in Upstate New York. I missed Gertie and looked forward to coming home to do the laundry.

The day I returned, I quickly shoved dirty clothes into a bag and headed out to the laundromat to see Gertie. There was an announcement on the door saying that the laundry had been closed permanently.

I left the laundry on the stairs and went to Gertie's apartment. I knocked on Gertie's door and got no answer, so I knocked even harder. A lady in the next apartment stuck her head out.

"Gertie's gone; she does not live here anymore. Are you her friend from the laundry?"

I was close to tears and just nodded my reply.

Handing me an envelope, "She left you a note."

Dear Mary,
My daughter is writing this for me. I fell down and broke my arm. Since this was not the first time I got hurt, she is taking me to live with her. She is afraid I might fall down the stairs.

I was lonely until I saw this little girl carrying a large laundry bag and you were the only one ever using that dark and smelly place. I had to find out what was going on.

I found a sweet, caring little girl and a good friend.

Thank you, Girlie.

"Oh yeah, don't forget to get a washing machine when you grow up!"

Reading the note, I needed to talk to Gertie to tell her I, too, was lonely. So many things I wanted to ask her advice on. Now the opportunity was gone.

I did find another laundromat, but not another friend like Gertie.

Years later, I am back in a basement doing laundry but now with my own washing machine.

Yes, Gertie, I followed your advice.