In the Basement

We lived in the same area as my grandparents on my mom’s side for approximately the first six years of my life. While we constantly moved houses, we were always an easy distance from their home.  

My grandparents lived in the same house that whole time (like normal people), so I spent a good amount of time there throughout those years. When I was thinking about their house the other day, I was reminded of The Basement, and I swear I can still smell and feel it to this day when I think about it. 

I was scared of the basement, a common occurrence in children when confronted with unfinished basements, I imagine. It was dark and damp, and had lots of shadowy corners. The stairs leading down to it were open at the back, meaning anything that wanted to could have grabbed you by the ankles and dragged you into the darkness behind the stairs to do God-only-knew-what to you. 

(Side note: when we lived in a friend’s basement years later it had the same kind of stairs, and I used to hide behind them and grab at my sisters’ ankles when they’d walk down. I thought I was hilarious. Miraculously, this never resulted in anyone tumbling down the stairs and braining themselves on the floor at the bottom) 

The thing is, it’s not like I was sent down to get things all that often, but I chose to go down there on a semi-regular basis. Mainly because, as it turns out, I like to be scared as long as I know I’m not in actual danger. I’m sure boredom played into it too, but I did like to go down there and freak myself out. I used to dare myself to go to the far back, and stay as long as I could. Then I’d think about all the creepy possibilities in the darkness behind the stairs, until I’d finally force myself to go flying up them, bursting out the door at the top as if I’d barely escaped with my life. 

There was also a wringer washer in my grandma’s basement. For the unfamiliar, a wringer washer was one of the first styles of electric washing machines. A key feature was two mechanical rollers sitting one on top of the other, that you would feed the clothing through to wring it out after it had been washed. 

Everyone I knew had at least one story about a cousin or sister or uncle who was mangled by the wringing mechanism at some point or other, so I grew up with a healthy fear of it. I didn’t even like to be near the wringers when the machine was turned off, convinced that it would somehow spring to life and suck my arm into it until I looked like Flat Stanley.*

Despite the fact that I ran across several articles waxing poetic about the joys of wringer washers while looking into them again to write this, I personally am more than happy to live in the age of automatic washers and dryers. Although, I’m pretty sure we briefly used one while living in that basement I mentioned earlier. If memory serves me correctly, I’m pretty sure my sister managed to hurt herself while using it. 

Turns out, the most dangerous thing in my grandparents’ basement was probably a washer. 

*Flat Stanley, was a children’s book character from a book my grandma had. He gets squashed flat by a bulletin board in his bedroom, but somehow lives and has such adventures as being rolled up and sent in the mail to visit his friends.