The Washing

Henrietta, Texas, 1963: It is a time-honored tradition among college-age boys that they drive home on weekends, and there consume mightily of home-cooked meals prepared by their mothers, and by a remarkable coincidence they often have brought a duffle bag filled with laundry which they somehow failed to find time to wash while at school, what with their busy schedule of studying, and etc.

Although these college lads may be large, hulking, beer-swilling brutes, each is still mama’s dear baby, and so these mothers feed the boys and do their washing, and after the weekend send the young warriors off with bellies full and clean clothing. This cycle repeats over and over again, apparently eternally.

I was no exception.

On this particular weekend, I was desparate, for I was down to wearing a dirty shirt, and two mismatched socks. One sock was pale blue and the other white with a faint orange stripe.

In the laundry room, my mother looked me up and down as I plopped down the swollen laundry duffle. Staring at my feet, she frowned.

“It’s the funniest thing,” she said.

“What is?” I asked.

“You have another pair of socks here,” she said, “exactly like that pair you’re wearing.”