I had a great day visiting my daughter in Forney. We went garage sale-ing. We ordered pizza. We drank a cocktail in the middle of the afternoon.
Yes, Sir. It was a great day.
I dunno.
I finished a book earlier this evening.
Not a good idea, because finishing a book is like the end of a life.
It makes me melancholy.
I found a book in the 25-cent bin at a bookstore in the "big city," when I was picking up some other books (not 25-cent books, though), published in 1935. It was a history of the laundry business in America.
Enchanting. Engrossing. Compelling.
Yes, I mean that, seriously. I couldn't put it down.
Really.
It was profusely illustrated with all sorts of heavy-duty laundry equipment too, state of the art stuff circa the mid-1930s. I always wondered what those cylindrical things were, that were actually hot-irons; apparently it was a handy way of ironing bed-sheets.
I felt sad and depressed and melancholy when I finished it because I realized this was a heart-warming charming aspect of American life and culture that will no longer be; when housewives sent laundry out to be done.
Probably there's nobody alive any more who recalls this; when mom sent the laundry out once a week to be done at a large laundry plant; washing, drying, and ironing. And then the delivery man brought everything back.
