Now, even though the arms were bigger, I’d found that my days of instructing were not yet done. There was, as I’d mentioned, a laundry issue, and it was time for a tutorial.
What in the world was going on with the towels? It was a mystery that had me looking for a Sherlock. Who, I guess, was off tracking stuff for Scotland Yard with the luck I’d had in unraveling it.
They were multiplying like rabbits in the back room. No sooner had I laundered a full load than another one appeared. I was a hamster in a wheel, the Lance Armstrong of laundry, riding the Tour de France on a stationary bike for all the progress I was making.
What was up with those kids? Were they using a fresh one for each limb and one for their hair? It was the only thing that could explain the astonishing proliferation I was seeing. And that’s why Mother was designing another workshop.
I’d call it “Toweling Techniques.” Knowing the guys, I’d have to keep it lively; real lively and real loud, or I’d lose ‘em.
The “seminar” would be held by the washer. I’d lure them in with the smell of fresh cookies, something they could never resist, and I’d nail ‘em.
“Fellows,” I’d say, “let’s start with the basics. This here is a towel, and this is your head.” Starting at the top and working down, I’d show the quartet how it’s done. “You towel off your hair and move to your neck. Next, it’s left arm, then right, and on to your tummy, all with this lovely green towel.”
If they started getting wiggly and restless, I’d stop and fire off a few bottle rockets out the back window. Or we’d step just outside and blow a few ‘crackers just to help them refocus.
When we’d gathered around the washer again, I’d bring it in for a landing. We’d cover legs, feet and our exit technique. I’d reiterate the truth that, “This is not Sea World and you are not dolphins, so there’s no need to leave a lake on the floor.”