Eyes half closed, I lean over the edge of the bed and fumble around my nightstand for the remote, eventually finding it tucked under my Kindle. On autopilot, my index finger clicks the on/off button until two beeps confirm the A/C is shutting down.
Is it Monday already? Or did I dream it? I blink my eyes a few times and confirm that yes, the sun has risen. A wee bit of diffused light is peeking through the edges of my navy-blue, black-out curtains.
Groan.
I flip over in my bed, pulling the covers with me. I had woken up at the ungodly hour of 1:30 a.m., bright-eyed and bushy tailed, so I decided to finish the book I’d started the day before. I reserve Sunday afternoons for guilt-free, down time, usually polishing off a light, breezy novel. But between dishes, exercising, watching a YouTube video on Photoshop Elements and Skyping, I managed not to finish my fluffy opus.
Normally, I start my day under the veil of darkness, but my middle-of- the-night, reading interlude thwarted that. Well, the good news is that I fell back to sleep. Surely, adding the first sleep period to the second one equals a full night’s sleep; though, before my cup of coffee, I am not exactly feeling it.
I trudge into the kitchen, accompanied by the deep bellow of cows mooing in the distance – they must be changing fields as I have never heard them all the way up here before – and make my coffee. While it’s brewing, I assemble my usual gruel of oatmeal, plain yogurt, fruit, chia seeds (pre-soaked since they are thirsty little buggers) and walnuts, topping the lot with a scoop of ground flax seed.
One of my bleary eyes detects an orange and white fuzzball exploring the kitchen, but my not-yet-awake brain can’t be bothered to refill his nearly empty food bowl. Bruno likes his Purina Cat Chow crispy and fresh. The high humidity here turns it into semi-moist bits that stick to the bottom. Actually, what I should do is clean out that bowl and provide a nice fresh one. Later. After my morning jolt of java.
Ohhhh, there it is, the moment I’ve been waiting for – the sweet aroma of fine Honduran coffee percolating through my house. I pour a cup and take a deep sip of the hot brew. Divine. Life is good.
I park myself on a bar stool at my kitchen island and scoop up a bite of my morning mash before clicking on my iPad. I want to plan my day, but I need to know the weather to do that.
Per the Weather Channel app, the chance of rain this morning is 6% to 11%, depending upon the hour. Not bad. It doesn’t hit the 20th percentile range until late in the afternoon.
The coffee must be kicking in as I have a brain wave – why not let my eyes do the meteorological prognosticating! It’s already 5:37 a.m., and I can see the sky, the ocean, the trees, everything I need to know!
I turn my head to peer out the sliding glass doors and make my prediction:
The Loder Observational Weather Forecast: Cloudy towards the west, but not ominously so. A hint of blue to the east. Slight breeze rifling through the tree tops. A beautiful day in Paradise.
I smile. Between the Weather Channel and my very own two oculi, I think it’s finally a good day.
Since I came back from my last trip to the U.S., we have had unseasonable early fall rains. Rainy season here on Utila usually waits a bit longer to arrive. Already, my ATV has turned into a mud pie. The streets leading from the main road to my house on Pumpkin Hill are unpaved and have morphed into an intricate tapestry of puddles. No amount of defensive driving can avoid them. Mud splatter is inescapable.
Safe in the knowledge of a seasonable weather day, I leisurely read the news while finishing my breakfast and coffee.
After dressing and making the bed (all good days begin with a nicely made bed), I gather all the towels and stuff them in the washer along with the sofa throw (might as well make sure the washer is full, there is only so much water in the cistern!). With all the dish drying I do, I am running low on kitchen towels, prompting today’s meteorological exercise.
With the load running, I turn my attention to fleshing out my to do list for the day, which is appropriately titled as follows, in nice, large, 43 point, Party LET font:
Visuals are everything to me. My comforter has a happy fish and sea motif while my sheets are covered in blue fish, though the design can vary from pink flamingos to navy whales. Topping off my aquatic vision is a dark-blue octopus pillow, bringing a smile to my face every time I walk into my bedroom.
Off the top of my head, I come up with twenty-four tasks to fill in the blank lines printed on the page. Those, unfortunately, are in addition to the unwritten, non-negotiable, daily chores like washing the prior day’s leftover dishes, sweeping the house and skimming the plunge pool for insects.
With the first and most urgent matter, washing towels, underway, I decide to turn my attention to dispatching my daily drudgery before tackling anything else on the list. I feel like I am stuck in an endless loop of Ground Hog’s Day. At least poor Bill Murray was released from repeating the same day over and over once he finally got it right. With basic household chores, you never get to the point where you can perfect them and move on. It is the provenance of dishes, dust, dirt, cat hair and insects to relentlessly torment you day in, day out.
After a short while, the house is reasonably clean (don’t look too close), and I can start task #2 : hanging pictures.
I have four framed, hand-made postcards from Roatan. Little did I know when I bought them years ago that I would someday be living in the Bay Islands. I plan on hanging three of them on the sliver of wall between the two sets sliding glass doors.
My challenge is how to aesthetically arrange the two horizontal and one vertical picture I selected. I grab three old Organization Rules sheets and fold them into the size of the picture frames, taping and re-taping them to the wall in multiple creative ways. Nothing is working.
I step back and examine my last attempt at Art Nouveau, then freeze. There is something dark and ominous outside: sinister clouds are rolling in from the west.
Dashing to the window, I stare out into the horizon. Gloom and doom abounds. Running from the clouds to the sea is the telltale grey mist of rain. Maybe I will be lucky and it will pass by the island? No, probably not.
Grumble. Grumble.
I have limited covered space to dry laundry. My main lines run under the edge of the roof line on the deck, exposed to the elements. And this load is HUGE – lots and lots of individual pieces. I have been waiting for a break in the damp, wet weather, and I was positive today was the day.
And or course, just now, I hear the lilting, beeping tone of my washing machine informing me it’s done.
My eyes dart back outside. I need to get a closer look at the impending doom in the distance. I walk onto the deck and scrutinize the sky, hoping proximity will change the verdict. Nope. It’s still cloudy with a very good chance of rain.
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
Sigh. Well, I’ll just have to make do with the covered areas I have. I pull the laundry line from the hinge on the kitchen door over to the post by the plunge pool. The part nearest the house will be protected as long as there isn’t much of a breeze. Ha! That’s wishful thinking with the tempests we get during rainy season.
Grumble.
Next, I trudge into my bedroom and pull a laundry line out of a nightstand drawer. I step onto the bedroom deck and loop the line on the hammock hooks. This deck is completely covered by roof, though like the main one, a gust of air will bathe it in unwelcome moisture.
Let’s see how much these two lines will hold. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
I make a few trips back and forth from the washer in the guest bath, each time carrying as much as I can reasonably hang without dropping anything. Not using a basket to haul damp laundry outside is a holdover from COVID when we were confined to our homes here, and I wanted to increase my daily steps.
Both lines are now packed to the hilt with bath and beach towels. Returning to the bathroom, I stare into the drum.
Damn.
There’s a mountain of kitchen towels and counter-cleaning cloths still piled in there, not to mention hand towels.
Okay. I have been meaning to add a line outside the media room. Now is as good a time as any. The question is, do I have a hook?
I pull out my Ridgid tool box, my Nanuk case and my Pelican box, all waterproof cases designed to keep the omnipresent humidity from my tools and hardware supplies. I root around for a wayward hook. Nada. Zip. Zero.
I did find lots of screws. Would one of those work? Nah, I don’t think so.
I’m left with no choice. I have to go downstairs into the small storage room, or bodega as it’s called here. I grab the key, change from my house slippers into my outside shoes and head downstairs.
A few drops of rain hit my shoulders. I look up. The clouds are white with a hint of grey. I’m sure they will blow over quickly. I’m determined to be an optimist now. My glass isn’t just half full, it’s brimming with the nectar of the gods.
I pull open every plastic drawer, open every little box and bag in the small storage unit by the door. I am about to give up and go back to the screw idea, when the heavens part and the angels start to sing. There it is, tucked beneath a bag of wire nuts – a beautiful, shiny, stainless-steel hook. And just the right size, too.
Life is good.
I dash back upstairs and out onto the media-room deck. I examine the small area. If I loop a line around the support for the old air conditioner on the left side and then install the hook in the caddy- corner post on the far right, I can maximize the available hang space.
My Nanuk drill box is on the floor inside, so I come in, crouch down and hold a couple of drill bits up to my hook before choosing one. I’ve learned not to go too small. It’s impossible to twist in the hook if you do that. And if you manhandle it and over twist, the hook can break.
I lean over the rail and drill a hole into the back side of the post so the hook won’t be visible from inside. When I try to back out the drill bit, the drill looses grip. The chuck rotates impotently round and round the shaft. I pull the drill away in frustration and glare at the metal piece sticking out of the post. Maybe I could just tie the line to the drill bit and call it a day?
Argh!
I don’t understand why this always happens. I set the drill back on, tighten the chuck until it clicks. And again, swivel city! I do this five more times. Do I need different drill bits? These are Dewalt as is the drill; they should be good. Or is the wood simply too hard and sticky?
Finally on the sixth try, the drill holds and the pesky bit comes out.
Using a firm grip, I screw the hook in, finishing up the last, tight twist with a set of pliers. I smile, pleased I got the sizing right on the first try for once.
Now for the laundry line.
I have some extra parachute cord in my bedroom, so I run back through the living room and retrieve a small carabiner clip and the line. I fasten a loop in one end, push it through the gap in the back of the A/C support and then pull the other end of the cord through the loop. I stretch it to the far corner of the balcony. Sweet! It’s the perfect length to reach to the hook. Now it’s a simple matter of tying a loop in the end and hooking the clip onto it.
Success!
I sprint to the washer and pull half a dozen kitchen towels out, noting that there are still a lot more pinned to the side of the drum, including numerous cloth napkins, which become surprisingly large when you have to hang them up to dry. My chest tightens. That’s a lot of laundry still to be hung.
As I feared, the six kitchen towels take up the whole line. I trudge back into the living room, plunk down on the sofa and stare into the darkening horizon. It isn’t good news. Maybe I should buy smaller towels and napkins, but that won’t help me right now.
It’s official: I am going to have to use the emergency lines.
That means a) I have to go outside and trudge downstairs (again), b) hook up the lines under the house while standing on the very tip of my tippy toes (my bad since I chose where the eyebolts would be drilled in the concrete columns) and c) engage in a wrestling match with carabiners that are a hairbreadth too small to clip over the heavy bolts.
Drops begin to hit the surface of the pool. I am out of options.
I dig through a bin by the front door, find the baggie with the downstairs lines and remove one of them as well as two carabiners. Last time, I gave up trying to clip in the line and instead tied it around the eyebolt a gazillion times in the hope it wouldn’t come undone. It didn’t. But I don’t want to jury-rig it again – undoing it was a royal joy.
Maybe, just maybe, I can bend the clips wide enough apart so they will scrape over the rim of the eyebolts. From my Ridgid tool box, I pull out two pliers, clamping the thinner, needle-nose one on one side of the fastener and the slip joint pliers on the other side. I pull the pliers with all my might in opposite directions. I feel nothing – well, other than strained biceps and forearms.
I try again, and this time I feel a slight give. I compare the surprisingly stiff carabiner to the other one. Maybe it’s a bit wider? I repeat the process several times until I can see a sixteenth of an inch difference. That’s all I need.
Mentally crossing my fingers, I repeat the process with the other clasp, pulling and pulling, even engaging my pecs, giving it my best Schwarzenegger impression until it matches the first.
Feeling very buff now, I skip down the stairs, barely noticing the light mist. With a bit of force, I clip a carabiner onto the first bolt (hopefully I can get it off again!). Then I adjust the length of cord to reach the opposite eyebolt and make a loop in it for the second clasp before wrangling it over the edge of the bolt. Done.
I look at my handiwork and realize that the line between the two pillars on either side of the driveway is only as long as the driveway is wide. It won’t even hang a sheet (I had to fold over one side last week so it would fit).
There is no way my remaining laundry will fit on that line. There’s simply not enough runway.
I clamber back upstairs as heavy drops of rain begin to pelt me. This is not good. Not good at all.
Heading back into the media room, I sit down on the sofa and try to expand two more carabiners. I’m not feeling as successful as I was with the other ones. Taking my pliers with me, I trundle downstairs again.
The rain is getting heavier, and I am getting wetter. This does not bode well for my towels drying today, even under cover.
Sure enough, try as I may, I cannot get either of the clips to hook onto any of the eyebolts. I sit sideways on the seat of my ATV and repeat my Hulk maneuvers until I finally get one wide enough to scrape onto a bolt on the one side of the driveway. That works for me since I plan on stringing the line diagonally under the house to the farthest cement post. But the eyebolt on that post is a hair breadth thicker than the others and simply too fat for my small clips.
Fortunately, I can loop one end of the line through the burly bolt like I did with the gap in the A/C support. Then all I need is the one working carabiner to fasten into the skinnier eyebolt. Problem solved!
Both lines up now, I pivot to run back upstairs. I freeze. It’s raining a lot harder now. Groan. I have to scurry from under the house up to the front door, becoming a soggy moggy in the process.
Once safely inside, I hear the steady prattle of raindrops on my aluminum roof abruptly turn into a deafening, pounding barrage, drowning out all other sounds.
How in the world can I finish hanging my laundry in this? It will become water-logged by the time I ferry it under the house. The spin cycle on my washer does an excellent job of wringing out excess water. I don’t need to add it back in.
Well, maybe I should finish hanging my pictures instead. Having taken a break, I realize one image – the gecko – can be turned sideways so all three frames are aligned vertically. It won’t matter that the writing is now turned ninety degrees; it’s the lizard that catches one’s eye.
I carefully measure and remeasure the exact center spot between the molding of the two sliding glass doors. By the third picture down, the distance between the two sets of doors decrease by an eighth of an inch. I head into the media room and pull out my large, trusty level to make sure there isn’t some weird, one-sided twist to the wood. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t necessary.
After tapping in the hooks and hanging the pictures, I step back and admire my handiwork. The three pictures are perfectly balanced: a butterfly on top, a gecko in the middle and a frog on the bottom.
I glance to the left at the gap between the kitchen glass door and the sliding glass doors. Hmm, I probably could hang the last picture above the fan and light switches. I hold up the framed image of a small turtle against the wall. Perfect! Being vertical, it complements the narrow space impeccably.
Just then it dawns on me that the clouds seem lighter, the sky less grey. I peek over at the pool, relieved to see that the boiling cauldron has turned into a simmer with individual raindrops gently rippling on its smooth surface.
Bingo!
I run into the bathroom, peal a handful of kitchen cloths off the side of the washer, grab the bucket of clothespins and scamper downstairs, careful not to slip on the wet leaves sticking to the steps.
Standing on the tips of my toes, I quickly load up the lines. A few more trips up and down the stairs, my washer is empty, my lines are full and I’ve only one dropped item.
I traipse back upstairs and hang the fallen napkin on the towel rack in the guest bathroom (don’t want to mix it up with the clean laundry). All that is left is to pull the lint filters out of the washer, de-fuzz them and prop them up to dry.
Done, done, done!!
I walk into the living room and pick up my clip board. I put a check in the box next to “wash towels and sofa cover.” I am about to cross off the second task when realize I still have one picture left to hang. I look at my watch: 10:41 a.m.
One task down, twenty-three still to do. Sigh.
In my peripheral vision, I notice a small, furry creature sauntering into the kitchen. I look over as Bruno plops down by his food bowl and gives it the death stare, willing it to bare fruit, or in his case, Purina Cat Chow.
In all my angst of doing laundry, I had forgotten to feed the cat!
© Sandra Y. K. Loder 2022
Originally published November 15, 2022
