The laundry can wait I think I need to give my wife a talkin’ to… The other day, I did some laundry. Mind you, it’s no secret around here that, by design, I suck at doing laundry. You see, I learned early on in life that exhibiting a lack of proficiency at a task in the presence of folks who fancy themselves proficient at whatever the task may be will invariably elicit enough sympathy, or frustration, to get them to do it for you. This has been my lifelong approach to the cleaning of my dirty clothes.
But I’m 57 years old, for heaven’s sake – and I’m trying to be better. So, back to the other day; I’m moving my washed clothes to the dryer, and I’m figurin’ that I need a dryer sheet, because I really want my clothes to smell springtime fresh. I’m not wearing my glasses, but right there with all the clothes-cleaning stuff in the laundry room, I see a bag of Clorox dryer sheets. I didn’t know Clorox made dryer sheets. Cool.
Long story short, Clorox indeed has a line of dryer sheets, but it’s important to note that they should be stored AWAY from their line of disinfecting wipes – preferably in a separate room. The good news is, I’m back off laundry duty for the time being.
Anyway, it’s not the time of year to be worrying about laundry and what all needs to be done in the house. Springtime is here, and it is beautiful outside.
A couple of weeks ago, I took my eight-year-old son Miles fishing at a stock tank on a ranch that I grew up hunting, fishing and playing on as a child. I hadn’t been there in many years. As I rigged Miles up with a fishing pole, I was overwhelmed by flashbacks of my own childhood – at about his age – in this place that looks so different now but still seems so familiar.
“See that tree across the tank, Miles? One time a bass jumped clear over the little boat your Uncle Jay and I were fishing in with our Uncle Bobby.” Unfazed, Miles said, “Did you bring my minnow net, Dad?” “One of my first dove hunts was with Pap underneath that mesquite tree on that little hill over there,” I said as I spit on a knot before cinching it down and clipping a Shyster spinner lure onto the swivel. “Your Uncle Will caught a little alligator on a Hula Popper by that pier, but he didn’t want anything to do with it once he got it to shore. I had to get it off for him.” “DAD! The net?” “Oh, right. I didn’t bring it.” I handed him the pole. “Follow me.”
We fished our way down the bank. Miles caught a small bass. I took a picture, and we let it go. “One time, we paddled that little boat to the bank, and as one of Uncle Jay’s friends stood up to get out, our dad pulled the boat right out from under him. I can still see the look on that kid’s face as he splashed in the mud at the water’s edge. We liked to never stop laughing.” Miles caught another fish – this time, a huge golden shiner minnow. I’d never seen a shiner caught on a lure. We took more pictures.
We fished till dark. On the way home, I thought of the people in my life who took the time to take me fishing, or hunting, or whatever when I was a kid. And though many of them are long-gone from this world, for one afternoon on a stock tank bank with my son, they were all with me - with US. Yeah, man – it’s beautiful outside, and the laundry can wait.
Jon Brauchle spent 29 years as a game warden.
