The mildew smell is competing with a strange sewer gas odor, emanating from the scary drain on the floor of the cellar. I quietly creep down the crude, open, unpainted, wooden stairway. I stand facing our old Westinghouse front-loading wash machine in our poorly lit basement. The hot moisture from the heavy load of towels magically draws me closer. I wait patiently in anticipation. And then it happens. The spin cycle starts and this previously stationary appliance now wildly begins it's irresistible, gyrating, mating dance. I press my pelvis into the front door and hold on for dear life. Oh heavenly angels, what the heck is this wonderful feeling? And just as violently as it began it is suddenly over. I am not sure exactly what just happened, I am only six years old. I only know for certain that I will return to celebrate this hypnotic ritual again tomorrow.
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