GRAVETTE — Lest we forget, the dry weather will come, won’t it? Shoot, I gripe more than most but then I got a hole in my left rubber boot this morning and had to wade the muck anyway. Then my sock got wet and when it was finally time to pull the boot off of that foot, it would not come off! Now, and I want you to visualize this, I had to call my close relative out to the utility room to assist with the removal of said boot.
She arrives, wiping hands on a pretty white tea towel, wearing a clean pair of Levi’s and a white sweater. A long sleeve white sweater with no stains on it, none at all. About the time she stepped into the room her arm flew up and that index finger sprang into action, indicating that I should be outside. I felt like a bit summertime fly being shooed!!
I dodged the tea towel and the finger and finally made her understand I was in need of support and aid. I sat on the cold floor and she managed to get the boot removed just before the hip joint released its grip and the entire leg came off! All that was left was that muddy sock and a slightly frosty foot. She peeled off the sock and continued to make that skunk odor in the air face the whole time. Then, as I was getting up from the floor, she began to discuss the condition of that once white sock and how it would probably never come clean.
What do close relatives do with socks at your house? Do they bleach them and then hang them to dry in the front yard so everyone in the country can drive by and remark about the blinding whiteness of said laundry? I would have been socially unacceptable if the neighbors knew how bad one of the pair of socks in my underwear drawer looked, I am sure! Well, according to the dynamics of the minute, that is what was gonna happen sure as the sun comes up in the east!
I went straight to the bathroom to wash up and when she showed up in the doorway I glanced that way. You know how a movement will catch your eye. There she stood, feet slightly apart, arms akimbo and brows drawn into the deep V of a close relative’s disgust. Sure enough, there were some very small mud splatters on that white sweater and it looked like some mud was ground in around the right wrist opening. I just turned back to my business.
It is my opinion, and everyone has one, a home is a man’s castle. I put on clean clothes and slid down into the comfort of my recliner. The paper was ready for me, lying on my lamp table and I could smell a new pot of coffee brewing. Yep, a castle, a wonderful place to be treated like a king. If you fellers will just learn to apologize profusely, say some sweet things, compliment the industrious action she employs in taking care of her duties like the laundry, you too can be a king.
Promising a few nights out and handing over some folding money for a new blouse and one pair of men’s socks is also appeasing!
-Bill
Bill laments the positives (and maybe a negative or two) about a man’s castle.
Opinion, Pages 4 on 02/10/2010