Post End-of-December Invasion


Everybody back home again, again the mopping-up time. These invasions, always the same mountains. The same lot-of-towels, the same sheets, the same-heads-crumpled pillowslips. The same small, worn-dirty, left-behind items too, typically foot-shaped and maybe not even missed, as there’s always more where they came from.

Not that the washer sat empty the long week long. Gracious no.

I doubt you’d want my machine. The agitator thing is missing. When it broke, Paulson wanted to replace it. But I said no. I liked the roomier tub, no center paddles jutting up. Using a plain old plunger, I could give the loads my personal attention, whatever drubbing they deserved.

It’s been years now. There’s a certain satisfaction, is all. Nobody seems to understand. The glorious suds and slosh-sloshing water, the shirtsleeves and pant legs lapping and entwining—what’s not to love?

This time Grandgirl requested a turn. Sure, honey.

 


 

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