Great-Grandmother was standing on the far side of the porch, the end paved with makeshift flagstone. She instructed me to be careful and not to put my hands into any moving parts, but for one rare instance, this warning was unnecessary. The washing machine was a metal barrel with no lid or distant dreams of safety features. The beast rumbled and lurched as my great grandmother stuck her hand down into the cauldron and fished out an article of clothing, stuck it into the wringer, and reached around back to catch it. She carried the basket of damp clothing around back to her laundry line. We would chat and sing as she worked, but in my mind I knew that steel beast was still sitting up there, waiting to feast on one of my limbs.