Notes of
Concern…
…Jackson Blair
Who Knew?
When my mother was growing up in a large family chores were
clearly delineated. She brought those thoughts to our home.
There was “man’s work” and “women’s work.”
As you might imagine, when my mother married and had a
chance to have her own home she took great pride in keeping it neat and
orderly. She cooked all our meals. She cleaned our home. She made our beds,
every day. And she would have been mortified if either my father or I had
offered to help.
Lest you think my father was a chauvinist, let me tell you
he would have gladly helped with any of the housework.
Me, not so gladly!
My wife, who is a very hard judge, called my father “a
Prince among men.” In 44 years of marriage she has not even suggested I might
be deserving of a royal title. Hope, however, springs eternal.
I have no skills related to work around the home. I am not,
as they say, “handy.”
I am most definitely “chore-challenged.”
It is clearly my duty to see that the “man’s work” gets
done. I am pretty certain there is no manual anywhere that says that means I
have to do it. My sole responsibility is to cause it to happen.
I meet those obligations by knowing lots of kids who want to
make money to buy gas and go on dates and a few “semi-pros” to handle the more
difficult tasks.
So when my wife departed from our summer home this year I
made the serious mistake of saying I thought I might repaint the signpost at
the end of our drive. It may well have been a sign of early onset senility.
It must have been a real surprise to her.
When she regained her composure, she decided to test her
luck.
She mentioned that the screen doors needed painting, too,
and I might just expand my project since I would be painting anyway.
I knew immediately that I had stepped in it!
So today I got in the car and drove to the hardware store.
On the way I decided I would just ask their advice, buy the minimum paint
needed to do the job, and ask for a brush I could throw away and would not need
to clean. Seemed a foolproof plan.
Right!
I tell the lovely clerk that I want to paint a post and a
couple screen doors and that I need a can of white paint, the kind for
outdoors, and a brush I can throw away.
She says: water based or oil based?
She might as well have been asking me for the secret formula
for Coca Cola, or at least for Bush’s Beans.
How would I know?
So I asked her: how would I know?
She carefully explained it all to me and said something
about “primer.” Now my Mom did not raise a fool. Primer means painting
something TWICE. So I knew for sure I did not want that.
The lady recognized immediately she was dealing with someone
who should never be trusted with a can of paint, let alone a paintbrush. She
gave me a little piece of cloth that was dampened in something she said would
either remove the paint on the post or make it look really good. However the
experiment turned out, it would provide me with the answer I need as to which
kind of paint I should buy.
I drove right home.
I admit I was a bit inquisitive so I went right out to the signpost
pole and rubbed it with the little piece of cloth. The paint did not come off.
The paint did look nicer.
Unfortunately, I forgot whether that meant I need water- based
or oil-based paint. I pondered this troublesome question for a short time. I
recognized if I went back to the hardware store I would have to ask the stupid
questions again. Also, it would not reflect well on me.
So I called one of the local lads. He can figure out what
paint to use and he probably needs the money. I am blessed to have a strapping
young man, Keaton Farrell, living next to us on the island. He is a hard
worker, an amiable fellow, and willing to take on countless tasks. In the past,
I relied on his brother “J.D.” but he has now moved on to college and Keaton
has stepped up. I have no idea why those Farrells stopped at two kids. Maybe
Keaton will delay college. As I said earlier, hope springs eternal.
Just when I thought the day could not get worse, I
remembered I had told my wife I would take the large comforter on our bed to a
local Laundromat where they had oversized washers.
We have a perfectly good washer and dryer right at our
cottage.
Who knew people made comforters that did not fit regular
washing machines?
Who knew a comforter requires a big mouth washer!
So I stripped the bed and stuffed the comforter in my car,
and drove to another town where they had these mammoth mouthed washing
machines.
Who knew a Laundromat is not manned?
Who knew you had to have quarters, and only quarters, and
that some Laundromats do not have change making machines. Who knew no one would
tell you how many quarters would be required.
So there I was…facing two walls full of machines exactly the
same size as the one I had at home. Around a corner were two large machines but
they were not marked as washers or as dryers and I wasn’t at all certain which
they were. And there was no one to ask.
I was bending low from the load of quarters I had gotten in
anticipation of the requirement. There were no directions posted on any of the
walls, possibly because there was no space available after they put up all the
legal stuff about not being responsible for anything that might happen to your
clothing in one of their machines; threatening to send you off for a long stay
at a local prison if you damage their machine; and reminding you there is no
guarantee anything will actually get clean.
I looked around for any hidden cameras that might capture me
violating any one of the listed “no-no’s” but I could not find one.
I was emboldened.
I grabbed my comforter and stuffed it into one of the two
big mouth machines. Just as I went to put in the soap, which I had remembered
to bring with me, I realized that if I made the wrong decision and put liquid
soap into a dryer I might face any number of years in the local hoosegow.
So I pulled my comforter out of the machine. I jammed it
back into the rear seat of my car. I jingled all the way home due to the
gazillion quarters I had previous acquired at another store (at a time I had no
idea how many quarters would be required.)
Who knew?
I gave a brief thought to entering the Bed and Bath store
and buying a new comforter. That would clearly be the best possible solution. But
I didn’t think they would accept a hundred dollars in quarters as payment.
So I went home, remade the bed, and decided it would not be
the end of the world if the comforter remained soiled.
That night I was having a martini at the very famous Inn at
St Peters with friends and relating the story of my day. The Innkeeper, perhaps
the best on the island, Karen Davey, took pity on me and told me to bring the
comforter over and she would launder it overnight in her big mouthed washer and
dry it in her big mouthed dryer.
I could hear angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus in my
head. Pipers were playing Amazing Grace. And somewhere someone was singing a
reworded version of a famous song: I left my heart in Prince Edward Island.
There is a reason this island is known as “The Gentle
Island.”
The people here are wonderful.
And in answer to the question: “who knew?”
They knew!
Geez, I love this island life.
