Maytag

Our family lived in Murray longer than any other place -- seven years -- and even though I was only 12 when we left, I still remember many events. One was particularly rewarding for Mother. One evening a traveling salesman knocked on the door and wanted to leave a Maytag washing machine with us for demonstration. Mother told the man there was no way we could afford a washing machine. (Not an automatic washer as we know them today -- one with just an agitator and wringer, but something few households had).

The salesman, in a ploy I later learned to use myself, said it didn’t matter. He got paid for the demonstration whether he sold the unit or not. Mother couldn’t see what it would hurt so she agreed to use the washer for a week. So instead of bending over a washboard in a tub, Mother used this wonderful gadget to wash our clothes and wring them out like magic.

At the end of the prescribed week, I really think Mother was trying to find some way to buy the machine but in the 1930s, even a dollar-a-week payment was out of the question. But the salesman didn’t come back. Several weeks passed and still no salesman or company representative came to retrieve the washer.

Mother wrote Maytag headquarters in Newton, Iowa, but got no response. Although we did have a telephone, calling long distance for anything but an emergency was out of the question.

So we continued to wait. Mother did not use the washing machine. She felt that would not be fair since we did not intend to buy it. Another letter was dispatched and no answer came for a long time.

Then one day the mail brought a form letter from Maytag that said it would not be cost effective for the company to send a man out to reclaim what amounted to a used washing machine. Apparently the salesman quit the territory and the company was just cutting their losses. At any rate, Mother used that Maytag for probably 20 years and would have been very happy to offer a testimonial to its reliability. There was only one trouble. People visiting our home who did not know the story of the free washing machine thought we were extravagant or must somehow be rich.

Other things I remember: Daddy singing Fire, Fire, Fire, London’s Burning in a deep bass voice; out fishing when a tornado struck and we had to hit the nearest ditch to prevent being blown away; fishing for bullheads and swimming in Finn’s pond; going with the theater owner in his Austin-Healy (smaller than the latter day Volkswagen Bug) to deliver show bills to area towns; walking home on a Sunday morning and finding out Pearl Harbor had been bombed and not having the least idea what that meant.

Mother always encouraged her children to give to charity. Although we didn’t have much, we were not on welfare and did have a few things many families did not. One Christmas Mother encouraged me to give one of my toys to a group providing gifts to needy families. Mother emphasized that giving meant parting with something that really mattered or it wasn’t real charity. I had a toy fire truck that was my pride and joy. I had kept it in mint condition. Although it hurt, I decided this would be a true charitable act if I gave it away.

The day after Christmas, we were out sledding in a neighborhood I knew as one in which one of the needy families lived. As we went by, I saw my prized fire truck smashed to pieces on top of a trash pile. I know it shouldn’t have, but my attitude toward giving to the needy has been prejudiced ever since.