Encounter With A Washing Machine Wringer

Even after all these years of association with the space program I am still amazed at the progress of technology during my life time, especially the progression from tube type electronics to micro-circuitry that has made such great changes in our ability to communicate and handle data.  I have observed that every new technology development comes with fears that it may be misused or present some sort of hazard to the populous.  

My first encounter with new technology and its danger came when our family acquired a wringer washing machine about the time I was just starting to walk.  The washing machine precipitated an incident that physically scarred me for life.  That incident is in my memory only because of its repeated telling by my mother and grandmother.  Apparently, the trauma of the event completely erased it from my conscious memory. 

   

Every Monday Mama Weaver would come over to our house to help Mother with the wash.  In our washroom was a wringer washing machine and two #3 galvanized wash tubs sitting on a bench beside it.  When the clothes had been sufficiently sloshed about and agitated in the machine, they would be taken out  of the washer and put through the wringer and dropped into a tub of clean water for  the first rinse; then the wringer head would be swung around to the other tub and the clothes would be put through the wringer into the  other tub for the second rinse.  Lastly, the clothes would be put through the wringer one last time and into a basket for carrying outside where they would be hung on the clothes lines to dry.  

Occasionally, as the garments were fed into the wringer, one of them would fail to drop into the tub and continue around one of the wringer rollers.  It only took a couple of extra turns for the thickness to build up and cause the safety mechanism to pop the two rollers apart and stop the wringing action.  After some tugging and prying the tangled garment would be removed, the mechanism reengaged and the wringing of clothes resumed.

One wash day I played and watched as the ladies did the wash.  My sister, Nancy, was helping by guiding the clothes into the rinse tubs.  However, no one was watching the little boy when he reached up to examine the pretty pink rubber rollers.  My screams and the “clunk” of the rollers popping apart quickly got their attention.  My left arm was stuck between the rollers up to the elbow as I hung suspended five inches off the floor.  For a moment everyone else joined me in screaming.  As Mother held me, somehow Mama Weaver  managed to extract my now red and swollen arm from the wringer.

Wash day came to a halt as the priority became to get me to the doctor for they were sure that my arm was crushed.  They wrapped my arm in one of the freshly washed towels from the basket and since Mama Weaver did not drive she held me in her arms as we sped the nine miles to the doctor’s office in Tuscaloosa.  My cries soon subsided to an occasional sob or whimper but Nancy cried most of the way about her little brother’s broken arm.

After an examination, the doctor assured them that my arm was not crushed but it was badly bruised and I had a deep wound on the underside  of my forearm where all the the layers of skin had been scraped away by the turning action of the rubber roller.  The healing process took a long time and many bandage changes and left me with a permanent scar about half the width of my arm. 
Copyright 2012© Willie E. Weaver  

An interesting follow-up to my Wringer Washing Machine Incident: 
Sixty-seven years after the original incident, I attended a meeting where our denominational president was speaking. He told about as a young man he worked in a factory making wringer washing machines. After the meeting I got the chance to speak with him. We exchanged names and greetings and then without saying another word, I rolled up my sleeve and showed him my scar. His immediate response was, " How old were you when the wringer grabbed you?"
Copyright 2016© Willie E. Weaver

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