Grandpa Walter keeps Baby Ruby happy on Saturday evening. We'd gone to Scott's sister Tanya's in Kelvington for supper but as my cold was on its last legs I didn't allow myself to pick up this little girl who wanted to be carried quite a bit. It was torture; I love 'em at that age.

***

While it's still pleasantly warm I take a load of laundry from the dryer, folding and stacking it in piles: the boys', Scott's, mine, and household stuff. I transfer a load of wet garments from the washing machine to the dryer and close the dryer door. I clean the lint filter, set the timer dial, press the start button.
Nothing.
I open and close the dryer door, re-set the timer dial, press the start button. Nothing.
After repeating this series of movements about five times in disbelief — after all, the thing had just been running — I put up the clothes rack and hang the wet laundry on it.
That night I tell Scott, my fix-it man, "The dryer isn't working. You can hear the timer clicking, but the machine won't start."
A day or two later I ask if he's had a chance to look at it. He says, "It works." I inquire what he had to do to it. He says, "Press the start button." He rolls his googly eyes; this sort of thing is not unusual when it comes to me.
I say, "I did that! Numerous times!"
"Did you open and close the door?"
"Yes. More than once." I'm puzzled now.
"Well, it works. I didn't do anything to it."
What the F.
I mean, Yay! The dryer works.
But what the F?