Eight weeks later, I'm done. I have developed a "spider sense" for when dirty laundry is coming my way. I have begun frothing at the mouth at the sight of large drawstring bags. I have begun to seriously consider wearing buckskin for the rest of my life, and encouraging others to do the same. (Either that or start lobbying for official camp jumpsuits, one size fits all.) Yes, the laundry season is finished, with its nonexistent bagging limit and no restrictions whatsoever on sock conditions.
The grand total: nine hundred and sixty-seven loads.
Yes, 967. It's incredible, isn't it? And about 965 of those were done with only three washing machines. Here's a picture of my domain, taken about ninety seconds after I came through the door for the first time in ten months:
But you know me. I can't resist a challenge like that. About four hours later, this was the new and improved Laundry Hut:
Naturally, a few changes were made in the weeks that followed. One change was that there is now a shoeprint under the windowsill, with a dead mosquito at the toe. I was quite proud of that kick. Also all three of those laundry bins somehow disappeared during the off-season. At one point I only had two bins, which was a bit worrisome because laundry bins are a crucial point for laundrical success.
Somehow, though, I made it through eight weeks. It was a challenge at times, of course. There was one day in particular that was really nasty. It was the usual mix of "pity party" elements: a request to hand-wash an item, several loads dropped off late with no apology, kitchen rags (enough said), some "line dry only" stuff, and some socks that probably bordered on biohazardous. There might have been a wet sleeping bag or two in there as well; I can't quite remember. (And when I say "wet", I don't mean with water.) Anyhow, I was moping around the laundry, grumbling about people who had no respect for me (in retrospect, of course, they were probably merely very busy people) and wiping the occasional tear with one staff member's blue camo duvet cover. 'Twas a seriously blue few hours.
And then, when I had resigned myself to another month of blueness, the head cook came to my window.
"Hey, uh," he said. "Can you come into the kitchen for a minute?"
"Sure," I said, and joined him in the dishroom. He showed me the sheets covering the racks of plates and bowls.
"Can you wash these?"
I studied them, wondering what the catch was. "Sure. When do you need them by?"
He named a day and carried them back to the laundry. I checked on a couple of loads and made sure that I didn't need to transfer any yet, and turned back to the counter to continue folding.
It's too bad I don't have a picture of what I found there.
Suffice it to say that it was beautiful, it was happifying, and it definitely turned my day around. It was a basket, you see, with snacks and a lovely anonymous note (at least, it was anonymous for the next 2.5 weeks), and it showed me that God can use anything and anyone to lift up the hearts of His children.
Even when they're down in the dumps over something as inconsequential as laundry.
