Posted by Mark David Manders
Fri, 10 Nov 2006 12:30:00 GMT
“There’s wrinkles on his face, wrinkles in his clothes. And he wears a little thinner as each day unfolds…”
It is a common misconception that men do not do laundry, or at least do it properly. I beg to differ. Most males are very accomplished in the art of washing and ironing clothes. Whether his experience comes from four years in college or simply living alone as a bachelor, the average adult man has, at one time or another, learned to master this basic household trait.
Then there is the husband. Most husbands, I will concede, leave the laundry to their wife, whether she works or not. It’s almost as if as soon as a man says, “I do” his mind erases all prior domestic knowledge. A line is drawn in the sand. He thinks, “Your job is to tend to inside chores and mine is to take care of the yard, vehicles, and minor household repairs.”
Not the case in our family. Do you have any idea how many dirty clothes we accumulate in the span of one week? The triplets are eight now and capable of making their own breakfast, walking to school, and, of course, dirtying up at least five pairs of jeans each per week, not to mention socks, underwear, and the ever-dreaded washing machine space killers- towels. If Kathryn and I slack for even a day in our laundry routine we are overwhelmed and spend the rest of the week playing catch up. Laundry around our house is a constant threat which requires the complete attention of both adults.
So you can imagine my panic when Kathryn called me last week and said, “Honey, the dryer quit working.” This was on Monday. I was on my way back from Sugarland and I only had one day to address the problem before leaving again for the Terlingua trip. I told her to call our neighbor, David, and see if we could use his dryer until I could either repair or replace ours.
It was a risky proposition. David had given us an extra key about a year ago to look after his house while he visited family in Louisiana. A few months back David mentioned to me that his supply of Patron had mysteriously dwindled. I tried to place the blame on Shawn, our other neighbor who also had a spare key, but deep down inside I knew David still had his suspicions. Fortunately, he agreed to let Kathryn and I use his dryer and thus began the new routine of carting wet clothes across the alley.
Now anyone who’s ever done laundry knows that the washing machine is much faster than the dryer. The average load takes only thirty minutes to wash, but at least forty-five to dry, and even longer for jeans and towels. This presents a problem when you’re toting basket after basket to your neighbor’s.
So I devised an ingenious solution. Actually, I borrowed on an almost forgotten technique that would make most grandmothers teary-eyed as they reminisced of bygone laundry days- the clothes line. You know, the summertime center of housewife social activity. In the days before fences and home owners associations, moms throughout the neighborhood would hang out their laundry to dry on two elevated wires using an ancient accessory, the clothespin. As they hung their linen out to dry they would chat with the neighbors and catch up on the local gossip. It was similar to the present male form of information exchange- mowing the lawn on Saturday, except it normally didn’t involve having a beer in one hand.
Anyway, the weather Monday and Tuesday was perfect for drying clothes, highs in the upper seventies and sunny. I rummaged through the garage cabinets and found a coil of wire that I used for staking my trees, repairing the James’s drum set, etc; kind of the urban equivalent to bailing wire. I then strung the wire from a fence post out back to the gymnastics bar that I had made for Jessica for her birthday. I knew the makeshift clothesline was a little lower than most, but at the time it didn’t bother me.
So my routine was this: I would wash a load of jeans, hang them on the clothesline until the next load was done, then take the slightly moist load to David’s for final drying, replacing the jeans with the next load of clothes. I didn’t have any clothespins so wind was a factor. Fortunately there was only a slight breeze Monday evening and Tuesday.
By Tuesday evening I had laundered at least seven or eight loads, enough to keep the kids clothed until Kathryn and I returned from the Terlingua trip. We were to be gone for five days and the last thing I wanted to do was send the kids off to my mom’s house with dirty underwear.
Kathryn and I returned from Terlingua around three in the afternoon this Monday only to find that in our absence the master bathroom toilet didn’t work and the kitchen faucet wouldn’t shut off. (My grandmother had always told me that things happen in threes.) So, after I picked up the kids from school, I got on the internet and ordered parts for the kitchen faucet. I then drove down to Elliott’s Hardware and bought the replacement parts for the toilet. By the way, this was the third time the toilet had acted up. Apparently the replacement crap they sell you at Home Depot only has a life-expectancy of only three months. Elliott’s, my favorite mom and pop hardware store (possibly the only mom and pop Home Depot hasn’t run out of business in the D/FW area), may be a little more expensive, but they actually carry brass replacement parts instead of that cheap, plastic garbage offered by the larger chain.
Monday evening I repaired the master bathroom toilet. On Wednesday the replacement parts for the kitchen faucet arrived. Within a few minutes the sink was fully operational again. I then set my sights on the dryer.
Our washer and dryer are made by White Westinghouse. In the past few years I have replaced the agitator, timer, and several knobs on the washing machine, but until this week I had not attempted any repairs on the dryer. Now I like to pride myself in the fact that I can, at least I believe I can, fix anything and everything that breaks in our house. (I often bring up this point when Kathryn gets upset at me for buying new and sometimes exotic tools.)
On Wednesday, however, I ran into a problem with the dryer- I couldn’t for the life of me remove the outer panel to get inside the unit. There were two screws located just below the control interface that I swear were impossible to get at with any type of screwdriver. I exhausted every method known to man to remove the screws, but to no avail. After three hours I gave up, thinking I would have better luck the following day. In the meantime, laundry was once again piling up.
That evening Kathryn and I decided to cook out on the grill. It was dark and I forgot to turn on the flood lights as I made my way out back to light the grill. I was moving along at a pretty good clip when all of the sudden my makeshift clothesline caught me under the chin and damn near ripped my head off. It was all I could do not to drop our steaks as my knees buckled and I fell to the ground.
OK, there comes a time when even the most stubborn of men finally admit defeat. Now I’m sure that I could have repaired the dryer. I am almost positive that all the dryer needed was a new belt; all I had to do was find a way to get inside. It may have taken a few weeks, but I could have done it. But you know, when it becomes a grudge match between man and machine, nine times out of ten the machine will win.
The only thing left now was to save face with Kathryn. I couldn’t let her know that with all my fancy tools I was unable to fix the dryer. So I lied. I told her that the dryer was beyond repair and that I’d have to buy a new one in the morning. I’m not sure if she believed me or not, but right now I don’t care. My back yard is no longer booby-trapped, my neighbor likes me again, and right now I’m folding dry clothes in the comfort of my own home.
How does the commercial go?
“Steaks not dropped on the way to the grill- $16.95. New Maytag dryer- $279.00. One hundred percent machine dried clothes- priceless.”
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Tue, 07 Nov 2006 09:00:00 GMT
Home sweet home! I have been gone for seven of the last eight days and I cannot tell you how good it is to be home again. The annual trip to the Terlingua World Chili Championship is by far my favorite weekend of the year, steeped in traditions, but it can take its toll on you.
Here was the plan last week. Russ, Lafon, and I had a gig Wednesday at the Texas Tavern in Brenham. On Thursday we were to drive to Angelo for a show at Blaine’s Pub where Grant, Kathryn, Kim, and Sarah were to meet us followed by Bret who drove separately. From there we’d all head out Friday morning for the six-hour drive to Terlingua. We were scheduled to play Saturday night, and normally we would head back home on Sunday, but this year we decided to take our time on the way back.
Our friends, Barry and Dee Johnson, decided to follow us to Brenham Wednesday in their urban assault vehicle, a cross between a van and an RV. Barry and Dee have been our friends for quite a while and it wasn’t until this weekend that we finally gave them an official title- Head of Entourage Security. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the acronym for their position is HOES.
We had a great time at the Tavern Wednesday. Since it was the day after the big Halloween party the crowd was fairly light. Hunter, the owner, told us when we arrived that he couldn’t stay out too late that night because he threw down a little too much the night before. In fact, just about everyone who showed up looked hung over. We didn’t care; we just kept on playing.
On Thursday morning we loaded up for the drive to San Angelo. We stopped for lunch at the City Meat Market in Giddings and feasted on steak, ribs, and sausage. It had been quite a few years since I’d eaten there, but the food was just as I had remembered it. Even better, I had a huge rack of ribs and an iced tea for less than ten bucks. I’d definitely rank the City Meat Market in my top ten all time BBQ joints.
We arrived in San Angelo around 5:00 in the afternoon. I dropped the guys off at the HoJo and went down to the YMCA to work out. Grant and the girls hit town an hour later, followed by Bret who arrived around seven.
After a quick sound check we began the show. We had a good crowd for a Thursday and this time there were no fights. It was Dee’s birthday, so we got her up on stage to do “Three Fingers Tequila” with us. Believe it or not, we actually quit playing at a decent hour. I think we made it back to the hotel and to bed by 1:30 or 2:00. That might be a record for us.
Friday morning we met up with Barry and Dee and took off for the six-hour drive to Terlingua. There were, of course, stops to be made along the way. The most important was the Coors Distributorship in Alpine. When we arrived we found that Bob Ritchey, who runs the Terlingua Golf Tournament, had beaten us to the punch on the Keystone Light. He had made off with sixteen cases before we got there. That’s it, next year we’re leaving on Wednesday and heading straight to Alpine just to make sure we get there before Bob. It wasn’t a total loss; the fine people there at the distributorship gave us Coors Light bottles and a few cases of Miller.
Grant made good time, no, great time, on Highway 118 between Alpine and Terlingua, pulling into the campgrounds around three that afternoon. Everyone unloaded and began setting up camp. For Barry and Dee that meant throwing it in Park and turning off the engine. For the rest of us it meant putting up tents and stowing gear.
This year, like the year before, we camped directly behind Ted Hume, not far from the Blaine’s Pub cooking team. I think this site has pretty much become our home at Terlingua. We are close enough to Ted’s campfire to hear the late night jams and still not too far away from the Angelo camp where the food is unbelievable.
That evening Kathryn, Dee, and I got in as margarita judges with a little help from our friends Emily and Erin. There were thirty entries and, even though you only take a sip of each, it is no easy task to make it to the end. A few of the margaritas tasted good; others weren’t worth mentioning again. I mean, who makes a margarita that tastes like coconut? I thought that drink was called a pina colada. Anyway, once the judging let out I took a badly needed nap.
Max Stalling played that Friday night and we got a chance to catch up a little before and after his show. He went to bed around midnight because they had a gig somewhere around Corpus the next day. Kathryn and I remained at Ted’s campfire where we listened to music until we couldn’t stay awake any more.
Saturday morning I set out with one goal- to find a shower. This is not always an easy task in Terlingua; after all it is in the middle of the desert. Fortunately Dan from the Angelo camp had a hotel room in town and offered us a key. He was going to play golf that morning and told us that we could use his shower while he was gone.
Afterwards Kathryn and I drove over to the CASI site to try and locate our friend, Lloyd. For those who have never been to Terlingua, there are two cook-offs. One is called “Behind the Store” and the other is “CASI”, the Chili Appreciation Society of America. I’m not sure how long ago it was, but somewhere down the line the two factions split and went their separate ways. I have always attended the Behind the Store cook-off. This year was my first time in fourteen years to visit the CASI site.
The CASI campground was crowded. I mean there were people camped within a foot or two of each other. I wasn’t used to being so closed in and Kathryn and I had a hard time maneuvering down the congested roads. We never did find Lloyd, so we left.
Instead of heading back to our campsite, I took Kathryn down to see DOM. (If you don’t know who DOM is or you haven’t seen the movie, “Fandango”, I suggest you read my News from the Road entry dated Sunday, November 6, 2005.) After a few pictures we returned to the cook-off. I wanted to slip down into Mexico for a while, but we didn’t have time because I had to judge finals chili at 2:00.
The turn-ins this year were among the best I’ve judged to date. I think there were only two chilis that I ranked as mediocre. The rest were top-notch. As is always the tradition at the finals table, there were tequila toasts and pleasant banter, as well as the inevitable nap which soon followed.
The awards ceremony began later that afternoon, I think around four, and we all went down to see if any of our friends had won. Ted Hume took home quite a few trophies. I think he said he was just two points away from winning the overall prize. My friends from the Angelo camp didn’t fare as well which is a shame. I tried some of their chili afterwards and it was excellent.
I got a surprise during the awards ceremony that knocked me off my feet. Kathleen Tolbert-Ryan, one of the head hanchos, called me up on stage and awarded me the Terlingua VIP plaque for all the years I’ve been playing the event. I can’t tell you what an honor it was to receive the award. When I first started doing the music thing I set goals of places I wanted play. My top three were Willie’s 4th of July Picnic, Gruene Hall, and the Terlingua Chili Cook-off. Getting recognized by the powers that be at Terlingua made my weekend.
We had a great show that night, going on after Gary P. Nunn. They were recording the show for a live CD and originally we were just going to play a 75 minute set. I think we ended up playing for over two hours.
Sunday morning we all loaded up and drove into the National park. Bret said “Good-bye” and went off solo on a two-day float trip down the Rio Grande. The rest of us kicked around the park for a while before heading in the direction of San Angelo again. On our way we stopped in Marathon and checked out where they filmed yet another scene from the movie, “Fandango”. It was the gas station scene where Kevin Costner and crew ended up bathing in a car wash. Another photo-op.
We arrived in San Angelo later that afternoon and got cleaned up. Kathryn and I headed up to Blaine’s for a drink but didn’t stay too long. We were worn out and returned to the hotel for a good night’s sleep in a real bed.
Monday was rather uneventful. We made it home around three in the afternoon and began the arduous task of unloading. All in all we had covered over 1600 miles, from the southeast part of the state to the extreme southwest, and then back home.
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