Here, however, even the heartiest Hanes can’t seem to stand up to the beating that is hand-washing all your clothes. Scrub, scrub, pound it on a rock. Normally, I would deposit said undies in the garbage, and readily obtain a new pair at local store of choice. Not so here.
Here, garbage is burned. Or at least for the pyrotechnically inclined. (…and then you pray your mama will send you some new sous-vêtements in the next care package!) The first few times I tried to burn my garbage, I ended up with a face-full of smoke, a wasted box of matches, and a minimally smoldering pile of rubbish gracefully adorning my front yard. No candidate for Better Homes and Gardens “Yard of the Year” award here. It seems some people in my family got all the pyrotechnical advantages. (Camille?)
It also seems my neighbor, the Grandmere took pity on me. That or she just likes to sift through my garbage. More recently, my garbage has started disappearing. Lucky me! Seems like a win-win situation. I can now enter the Cameroonian Yard of the Year competition, and Grandmere, who actually knows how to make things burn, gets my garbage.
Except when it comes to holey undies. There are some things that are just not meant to be shared with your neighbors. So, my weekend project… involves sitting over a pair of smoldering underpants. Let’s see how many hours this labor of love will consume.
PS--Happy Thanksgiving everyone!! :)