Our dryer died a few weeks ago. Or rather, the dryer that came with our townhouse died a few weeks ago. It had slowly been giving up the ghost over many months. Sometimes it would dry really well, sometimes it wouldn't. Finally, while a load of laundry was supposedly drying, I smelled a strong burning odor.
Burning odors are not a good sign.
We unplugged the machine and notified our landlord. A repair man came and checked out the poor appliance, the burnt aroma still lingering. He gave me a printed estimate for the repairs for us to pass on to the landlord, but then said that if he had a ten-year-old machine with such a costly repair, he would just replace it.
Our landlord agreed, so we're waiting for a new dryer to be delivered next week.
In the meantime, we've been doing our laundry old school. Bryan hung three rows of rope in the basement and we setup a couple of fans. I run a load through the washer, then carry my heavy basket down to the basement, and hang up our clothes with wooden clothes pins. As I carry out this somewhat tedious task, I feel like I've stepped into another era. I feel like my next tasks should be grinding wheat for our bread, then sewing our children's frocks. And as a bonus, I don't think the basement has ever smelled so good.
I'm still looking forward to the new dryer.
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