If I were stranded on a desert island, and could choose one person to be with, it would be my husband, Tom.
The feeling is not mutual.
It’s not that he doesn’t love me. And he probably would say he’d like to be with me, but it’s just not practical.
He knows when faced with opposition, I would give up and die.
So when he went to a farmer’s day conference on squash (yes there are such things), he gave me one assignment.
“Mop the back porch, Pauline.”
“But how do I do that?”
“Get a big mop..” blah blah blah, blah blah blah.
It’s not that I wasn’t listening, it’s that mopping makes no sense to me. And the back porch was FILTHY DIRTY FROM 70+ CHICKS.
In the past, I’ve pretended to know how to mop. When ladies get together, occasionally the topic of mopping comes up.
“I mopped all my floors today. What a job!” my friend, Diane might say. I nod my head and cluck my tongue, but actually I don’t know what she means.
I can sweep. I can run the vacuum, and I can even dust. But I’ve got a mopping handicap.
You take soapy water, put a fuzzy white thing in it, swish it around and then push it all over the floor. Where does the dirt go? Is it magnetically attracted to the fuzzy white thing? Then the fuzzy mop thing gets dirty and then what? Rinse it out? Where? With what water?
So I never know where to start and where to finish. Like the chicken or the egg. Or getting your car registration. You need proof of insurance to get it, but you need the registration to get insurance.
It’s a mystery–like mopping.
But a farmer’s wife has to face her fears.
So, desiring to be the one Tom would like to be stranded with on a desert island, and trying to prove I could pass the Girl Scout badge for farming, I got busy. I moved everything off the porch, got a mop and pushed the fluffy white thing all around, pressing hard to get the really yucky stuff off.
I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed with a brush. I rinsed with water from a different source.
I clucked my tongue.
I think tomorrow, I’ll call my friend, Diane.