Laundry a metaphor for an unexamined life

As self-appointed Chief of the Frigidaire Police, I vigilantly patrol the area of my home laundry room, fearlessly ensuring the safety of the clothing that goes into and emerges from my washer and dryer.

Don’t let the phrase “laundry room” fool you into thinking I’ve got some kind of a big shot operation going. My laundry “room” is really just a very small, four-by-five-foot backside entryway to my home, seldom used since the house was built in 1875. Until some enterprising soul saw the utility of making it into a utility room around the time indoor plumbing arrived.

WINNING COMBINATION – Ajax, alcohol and elbow grease combined to take the dryer-induced crayon marks out of this T-shirt and jacket. Unfortunately, their owner was still stupid enough to throw the wet pair in the dryer together, which turned the cream-colored T-shirt peach. It’s going to stay that way.

After spending the first 10 years of adulthood being traumatized patronizing the frequent freakshow of Laundromats and the second decade traveling to the basement to fulfill my laundry fantasies, I’d had my fill of inconvenience. I became instantly grateful for the claustrophobic space off my kitchen that serves as the hub of my scrub-a-dub-dub with suds and duds.

One has to guard such convenience with tenacity, as the luxury of an easy access washer and dryer can easily turn into hardship when something slips by the attendant. Who among us, operating in the carelessness that follows on the heels of the complacency bred through repeated, mind-numbing routine, has not allowed something other than clothing to enter the washer and dryer?

I’m not talking small children or pets here, although both have surely happened. Rather, things forgotten in the pockets of our pants and minds. Like Asian carp seeking to enter the Great Lakes waterways, they swim their way stealthily through the environment, wreaking unnoticed havoc until it’s too late to prevent the damage.

From Kleenex, colorful tubes of chapstick, tiny earrings and motor damaging B.B.s and paper clip to assorted ephemera, including grocery lists, coupons, notes from school, receipts needed to redeem manufacturers’ rebates, social security cards and that perennial favorite, the payroll check, it all goes through and comes out in the wash. Just not in the same state it entered.

Although I theoretically aim high, my laundry standards ultimately remain low. Following Larry the Cable Guy’s mantra, “Git ‘er done” rather than Heloise hints for mint results, I choose speed over accuracy and shove white (anti-wedgie, naturally) underwear in with black backporch rugs, toss in some low-class laundry detergent and call it good. Or at least adequate. Hey, someone who washes underwear with rugs isn’t going to invest in a quality product like Tide, much less use the word “investment” in the same sentence as laundry.

On a good day, the fabrics that enter my washer and dryer come out better than they went in. Or at least with different problems. And change is good, right? At least that’s what they keep telling us at work.

My washing and drying operations are nothing if not metaphors for real life. Often there is opportunity to catch problems midway through the process, before they become devastating. In theory, vigilance could prevent permanent damage. The cap of a Sharpie marker can withstand a great deal of agitation and spin cycle, but it usually proves no match for the dryer’s tumbling pummeling.

But alas, time continues to work against me. In the spirit of haste, I blindly grab as large an armful of clothing as I can from the washer and stuff it directly into the dryer without further examination. My unexamined life problem manifests itself in my laundry room.

This week, dryer fluffing proved my undoing. I tossed a pair of capris from my drawer, a tee-shirt from the recently-laundered basket and a melon-colored linen jacket from my closet into the dryer with a damp cloth. I didn’t bother to inspect the pockets, as I assumed they were object-free.

A small, stupid box of crayons from the last time Kate and I breakfasted at Cracker Barrel were in the jacket pocket. I felt equally small and stupid while using Ajax for an hour to remove crayon from the cotton pants and shirt. I will use alcohol this weekend to work on the jacket. Should take about six ounces of something hard to get me in the right frame of mind to tackle the mess. Moral: Examine more closely your laundry and your life.

Worst case scenario prompts best from others

When a Beth Ann Hammond’s 4-H project dairy starter calf died the first night of the Branch County 4-H Fair, Cailie Bercaw (see photo) of Union City gave her half of the price one of her own dairy starter calf sold for at the small animal auction. Another friend, Chelsea Carls did the same with her auction money.

Last week I wrote about the large behinds and other over-sized, under-clothed body parts I saw at the Branch County 4-H Fair. Published the same week Michigan moved up on the national obesity scale, the column should have raised consciousness, not just necklines. Instead, it netted my blog hate email, possibly typed by the sticky, cotton candy hands of someone wearing some of the inadequate clothing I described. So I’m turning the other cheek this week and writing about some even larger body parts that garnered attention at the Branch County 4-H Fair: teenage hearts.

After having to scrap 2011 plans of showing an animal at the Fair due to blowing out a knee engaging in athletics, Beth Ann Hammond, 18, of Sherwood was dreaming big. The 2012 Union City High School graduate spent her spring and summer working with her Holstein dairy starter calf, Humphrey, in preparation for the 2012 Branch County 4-H Fair. Her earnings on her livestock project through Mudsock 4-H Club were slated to help offset the cost of attending Albion College in the fall. Unfortunately, harm befell Humphrey.

“We took the calf to the Fair Saturday morning and all was well,” reported Robin Hammond, Beth Ann’s mother. “But we received a call at 8:00 Sunday morning that Humphrey had been found dead.” No one knows for certain how or why Beth Ann’s calf died. Sometimes life offers no comforting answers. Beth Ann was left grieving and without an animal to show at the Fair.

Some of the other 4-H members had second calves as livestock projects and offered them to Beth Ann to show. She was able to use the starter calf of a younger teen, Hunter Conine, to personally be judged in showmanship, but market class rules prohibited Beth Ann from showing someone else’s animal in that competition.

Left without options, Beth Ann spent the first half of fair week helping others with their livestock projects, characteristic of her caring nature. “She’s got a big heart, especially for the kids coming up in the ranks,” said Robin Hammond. But something even bigger than Beth Ann’s heart for others had begun beating on her behalf.

Fellow Mudsock 4-H member Chelsea Carls, also 18 and college-bound, offered to give Beth Ann the entire premium from the sale of Carls’ starter calf at the small animal auction coming up that Thursday. “Chelsea’s response to Beth Ann’s predicament was instantaneous, as soon as she heard the calf had died,” said Mudsock 4-H co-leader Deb Carls, who is also Chelsea’s mother. “She didn’t think twice or ask any questions. It was just ‘I’ll give her mine.’ Plus, Chelsea has another livestock project, a beef steer, and Beth Ann just had one calf.”

The Hammond family was overwhelmed by the enormity of Chelsea Carls’ generosity, but felt awkward about letting her giving up her entire livestock check to someone else. Enter Cailie Bercaw, 16, another Mudsock 4-H Club member, who had tried but been rule-prevented from giving her second starter calf to Hammond to sell at auction. Sensing the Hammonds’ thoughtful reluctance, Bercaw suggested she and Carls instead each give Beth Ann half of the price their calves sold for at auction. Acceptable compromise.

Word of the girls’ good deed got around. Come Thursday, the auctioneer told the story of Humphrey to the assembled bidders. Tears welled up in many eyes. “I think it really hit home with people that these girls who are young adults were willing to do something that would have been difficult for most adults,” said Deb Carls. Three different livestock superintendents told Carls how proud she should be of the character of her 4-Hers.

While the average dairy starter calf usually goes for $500-800 at auction, Cailie Bercaw’s calf went for $1,200 to Dale Waligora of Damiron Truck Center in Fremont, Indiana and Chelsea Carls’ calf went to Dave Young of Young Farms in Union City for $1,350 with additional add-on bid results pending from Crossroads Bible Church, Lean Direct Marketing, Matt Milligan, the family of Hunter Stafford, and possibly others.

“The outpouring of community was phenomenal,” said Robin Hammond. “What seemed like the worst thing that could have happened brought out the best.”

National anthems reveal national perspective

I have found the people who still believe America’s patriotism runs deep are pretty much the same people who believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

Lee Greenwood may be proud to be an American, but sometimes I’m not. Greenwood says at least he knows he’s free. I can’t claim the same, as each of my self-proclaimed rights appears to be accompanied by a serious helping of responsibility. Not the most freeing thought to someone who tries regularly to honor commitments.

I agree in theory with what “God Bless the USA” promotes, “I won’t forget the one who died who gave that right to me.” But I’m highly cynical over the next line, “And I’ll gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today.” It’s the “next to you” part I wonder about Wonder Bread. Specifically, I wonder how many anyones are left to stand up next to.

Trying to act in integrity, I often look around me and see no one else willing to fight for rights. “Yeah, yeah, that’s a good idea,” their attitudes say, “I’m sure someone else will take care of it for me.” No one seems to want to rock the status quo boat. But they sure love to sing along with Lee Greenwood about freedom, honor and integrity! It’s the next best thing to actually practicing those values.

My dismay and I find uneasy comfort in recalling the words of former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt in her World War II prayer, “Dear Lord, Lest I continue my complacent way, help me to remember that somewhere, somehow out there, a man died for me today. As long as there be war, I then must ask and answer: Am I worth dying for?”

Sobering question. Are we, as Americans, still worth fighting for, let alone dying for? Patriotism is the love of country and the willingness to sacrifice for it. That seems too inconvenient for many Americans. Hopelessly entitled, we view sacrifice as beneath us. But we embrace the rugged concept of it, like we embrace the cuddly bears named after another Roosevelt. Both are full of stuffing.

The summer Olympics trigger my national loyalty and the All-American assumption that our country remains the greatest thing since sliced bread. Wonder Bread. Makes you wonder how our deaf and blind superiority remains intact, despite mounting evidence our country lags behind others in many areas. Denial is our exclusive area of world dominance.

Following living in France, American humorist David Sedaris observed, “‘America is the greatest country on earth.’ Having grown up with this in our ears, it’s startling to realize that other countries have nationalistic slogans of their own, none of which are, ‘We’re number two.'”

What better indicator of a nation’s patriotic fortitude than its national anthem? I have a songbook featuring those top patriotic tunes from 47 countries that lends perspective to stereotypes we have about other nations. Or maybe not.

Countries with histories of cocky dictators tend toward militant-minded national anthems. Take “La Bayamesa,” the national anthem of Cuba, “Run to the battle, Bayameses. Proudly regard the country. Don’t fear a glorious death. To die for the country is to live! To live in chains is to die! In disgrace and dishonor surrounded, the trumpet will sound. Run to rise to arms!” Kind of gives you a warm feeling, eh?

Conversely, no national ego is evident in “Swiss Palm,” the national anthem of Switzerland, a country with a disposition as sweet as hot chocolate, but notoriously as holey as Swisscheese. Get a load of these lyrics: “Radiant in the morning sky, Lord, I see Thee; Thou art nigh. Thou, O most illustrious, Glorious. When the Alps glow in their splendor, Pray, ye Swiss, your hearts surrender. For we sense and understand God in our Fatherland. God, the Lord, in our Fatherland.” Neutrality personified.

Overlooking the bad rhymes, the ultimate in humility is “God Defend New Zealand.” Its lyrics state, “God of nations at Thy feet. In the bonds of love we meet. Hear our voices we entreat, God defend our Free Land. Guard Pacific’s triple star from the shafts of strife and war. Make her praises heard afar. God defend New Zealand.” Anti-fighting words.

To be a better patriot, watch the Summer Olympics, sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” like you mean it, and practice the national values you preach.