I have a deep and abiding love for my washing machine. Even before Jeanie lent me the wonderful Girl on a Pony, by LaVerne Hanners, who wrote about how her mother did laundry out on the ranchlands of New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma. It wasn't as if I hadn't heard it before. It's just that LaVerne described it in such detail, with such sympathy for her mother. The all-day process of boiling water, homemade soap, scrub boards—you know, those things you see for sale in antique stores and at flea markets, or integrated charmingly into restaurant decor.

Walking into the room at the Hot Springs, SD, Historical Museum full of wash boards and early wringer washers wasn't necessary for my edification either. Who needs such gruesome reminders of the torture of women?

There is the romance of the women gathered by some rock-lined river or stream, chattering happily as they pound their clothing clean with the nearby rocks, then leave it hanging to dry in the sun on bushes—also nearby. Cleverly, that brings me to today's laundramat. An incidental gathering place where one does a chore, possibly in a convivial atmosphere.

I don't know how it was for those strong-armed women by the river, but if they had to suffer the same anxiety that I do at the laundramat, wondering if there were enough bushes available to be able to dry all their garments after they were washed—then despite their harder labor, we are truly sisters.

When I got into the Bounder and began this nomadic life, I left my beloved washing machine behind. The Bounder, amazingly, has much of what we need. Newer, grander motorhomes do have washer/drier combos, along with brass chandeliers, granite countertops, etched glass and slide-outs—but I don't want to be a part of hauling granite countertops and washing machines cross-country. So during these excursions, I'm back on the laundramat circuit.

Many rv parks have them; some big, gleaming and well-appointed. Others small. But whether I'm sliding "loonies"(Canadian dollar coins) or American quarters into the machines, the same tensions and anxieties exist: will there be enough driers when those washing machines stop? Equally, the same opportunities for interesting conversation exist.

There are caravans of travelers who join-up for a price (one was $5,500) for 6 weeks, I heard) and are led from place to place. We see them laughing and talking in the rv park, see them sometimes together at a restaurant. There are retirees who spend summers in one rv park, and winters in another. Those are the motorhomes with porches, name plaques, hanging lights, perennials blooming—the kind of place so homelike it reinforces the fact that I myself am far from home. You know they also have long-term neighbors, and a sense of community.

Then there are the drifters, retired couples who move together from place to place, maybe visiting the children, seeing what every state has to offer. Families, I see less frequently. And there we are, the 2 of us and the obligatory dog—or set of dogs—seeing only each other mile after mile, day after day. There are short conversations with the waitress, registering, at the grocery store checkout. When the cell phone works, there's that. Traveling off-season, as we most often have, there is at times, an intense lonely feeling. After a few weeks floating among people who are wandering too, parked next to them for only a night, the idea of home and the daily routine of work—at times becomes poignant. I remember that somewhere there is a place where people on the street know me, with whom I share the daily life of place.

All of this makes some visits to the laundramat memorable. The one in Fort Nelson, after dark, where the woman and I talked about her life. How she was a teacher and years ago she and her husband had agreed to retire at a certain time, and begin to travel. How when it came time for her to quit teaching, she had only recently began to feel that she really understood what she was doing; that she loved her job more than ever and did not want to quit. How she did anyway, because they had an agreement, and after a while began to enjoy this life in motion. When her husband came in to help carry the clothes back, he was interesting and charismatic. There have been other conversations in other places; the sharing between women after the introductory remarks about the washing machine, or the temperature of the driers. From each, some of my hunger for connection was satisfied.

Sunday we went to the public laundry in Soldotna. Public laundry and showers. Dan and I did our laundry. The place was packed. This whole Kenai peninsula is bustling with fishermen and sometimes their wives, or the whole family. Hordes of motorhomes, fifth wheelers, trailers and campers are everywhere. If you have a camper, there is no bathroom or shower. At this laundry/shower spot, if you wanted a shower you had to come in and sign up. There was a long wait. $4.25, I believe, gave you four minutes of shower. One person per shower, please. The men stood outside and talked in the parking lot next to their campers, coffee in hand. Or people waited in the circle of comfortable chairs, with a table of magazines handy. After each shower, the young woman attendant went in, mopped the floor, cleaned out the shower, and the next name was called.

For those of us doing laundry, it was a slow process too. We were advised to use half as much soap. Then two women started talking about the hard water; how difficult it was to get anything clean. The perfect entree into the conversation. And advice about the driers: put another quarter in before the time runs out, or you'll have to pay $1.50 all over again.

My conversation was with a beautiful statuesque blonde woman from Michigan. My age? Older, younger? She and her friend and their husbands were here for a month. The men come and fish here all the time. They wanted their wives to know what it was like. They all golf too. No, fishing didn't particularly interest her. She was going along with it. Brought her sculpy clay along because she makes Santa dolls, and has orders already so needs to get started. They farm 2000 acres. Oh, corn, wheat, soybeans. The kids are taking care of it. Soybeans may need harvested sooner, though. Soon enough, she wished me safe trip and I responded in kind. And she left.

I went back to check on my drier. I'd scanned two current New Yorkers, and one old O. When I opened the door—this drier was the one with the socks—I knew immediately that the women were right; damn this hard water! I pulled out a few of my shirts, sniffed here and there, and had to admit the worst. We'll just have to make the best of it, I suppose. Soon enough it will be time to go again. But who knows where? After all, there is a swift-flowing river nearby...