When my daughter still lived with me, we chit chatted a lot about life and our observations. One conversation that comes to mind happened during a week when it necessitated calling an appliance repairman.
My three year old washing machine gave out. It needed a new transmission. There was good news and bad. The machine was under warranty. The labour wasn't. So $171 later, the repairman left. I began loading the drum with clothing and detergent, pleased to finally get caught up with all our dirty wash.
I noted a trail of mud and a totally blackened floor in my laundry room. My daughter saw the residue as well, and so, as she handed me pieces of clothing to put into the washer, the discussion began.
"How do you suppose the washing machine repairman gets such filthy work boots?"
"Hmmmmm...good question", I responded.
"It's not as though he has some dirty job. He doesn't go out into barnyards or muddy road construction sites to repair appliances. He doesn't walk for miles into rolling hill country to fix wringer washers that are sitting on someone's front porch, and yet, he has boots covered in the most disgusting grime known to man." She exaggerated ever so slightly for effect.
"Good point", I replied. "Perhaps he feels it's part of his image. Maybe he has a bucket of sludge in his van and dips his shoes into it prior to entering someone's freshly cleaned and vacuumed house. I suppose it just is, and shall remain one of life's mysteries."
I closed the washer lid and turned on the machine. It sounded as though it would explode. My mouth dropped open.
"Or perhaps", I said, "I'll just ask him when I invite him back to repair whatever is making this machine sound as if it's ready for liftoff."