…my father, the practical one, gave me a case of toothpaste and a tux; my mom, ever the dreamer, insisted I learn how to iron my own shirts. Now after all these years the toothpaste is gone (not to mention teeth) and the tux won’t fit (or even close), but I can still iron shirts. Which is one reason today turned out to be extraordinarily busy: I had a pile of shirts to be at least smoothed out some, or else.
And other stuff. Once upon a time men wore hats and carried watches on chains and carried knives in their pockets–pocket knives they were called (with a certain lack of imagination). The knives were tools, not weapons, and came in handy for all kinds of things. I carry a two-inch Swiss Army number on my keychain (it’s also a flashlight, a pen, a scissors, a nail file, and a screwdriver) but my dad’s was twice that long, with three good cutting blades and no frills. It was also, until last weekend, black with tarnish from many decades of neglect. So I decided it was time to clean it up, as well as two Boy Scout knives from the late 1940’s and a larger Swiss Army from who knows when, and sharpen them all, and all the knives in the kitchen as well.
Talk about your manic, huh? My goal is to be slicing tomatoes by the end of the month. Real tomatoes, I mean.
I’m not counting any of this as work. (Well, OK, maybe the shirts.)
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