The Ties that Bind-#SOL20 Day 21

My 10×5 foot laundry room is now the location of private communication. It is about half the size of a horse stall. If you’ve never been in a horse stall, then it is about the size of a small jail cell. Congratulations are in order if you have never been in a jail cell. What I’m trying to get at is that it is a small area that I have been navigating for the last twenty years to accomplish a cleanliness routine created by the people who sell soap. It has never been painted in a color that could be considered fashionable, unless you consider ‘strange orangish yellowish’ fashionable.

Don’t get me wrong. I am extremely thankful for my washing machine and dryer. During the yearly stomach flu family plague, it is my true joy. In direct juxtaposition of the 70’s vibe I have going, there is a poster of Wassily Kandinsky’s artwork given to me by my parents about twenty years ago. I think I mentioned in an earlier blog that my parents collect items that have a link to the Polish culture.

Yesterday, at about 3 o’clock I switched a load of exercise clothes out of the washer and into the dryer, and started a load of socks. is it just me, but do you often peer into the washer beforehand to see if you can locate the ever elusive black hole that seems to divide pairs forever?

Leaning against the machine, I look up my sister’s phone number, take a deep breath and place the call. “Cara Mary! How are you!” We don’t talk a lot, but I wanted to check in and make sure she and her family were handling the current situation well. She is an anxious person and this could be hard on her.

“How are you?” I reply.
“I cannot find my Angel Soft toilet paper anywhere. I’ve been all over town looking for it. I’ve been on Amazon and you wouldn’t believe what they are asking for it.”
You probably find this amusing. At least I hope you do; I did. Unfortunately, it may also present my sister in a poor light. In reality, she is one of the most self-less individuals I know. So, when she is finally concerned about herself, you know it’s a big deal.

“I only have two rolls left and I’m using as little as possible,” she continues. Then.
“Come here, Buddy!” retrieving her blind diabetic dog from the yard.
She sounds just like my Dad.
“You must think I sound just like Dad.”
“No. No, no.”

Yes. Yes, you sound like our Dad and isn’t it wonderful? And then there was the time at Rock Cut State Park when she was wearing my Mom’s old fishing hat. She was sitting next to my daughter at the end of the dock in the fading sun and for a moment I thought she was my Mom. I froze in place and stared. The way she was talking with my daughter was the way I used to see my Mom talk to her students and her grandchildren.

After my Mom passed away, I would get upset if my Dad would say that I sounded or looked like my Mom. But, now I think I understand and realize that these common characteristics are what bind us together. They are the gifts we give to each other and are passed from one generation to the next.

And as for real gifts? I think you and I both know what my sister will be receiving for her birthday and Christmas for years to come.

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