© 2010 Aaron Atkinson

Laundry Day

Last week my Dad and I shared a quaint South Dakota farmhouse with a dozen other guys for a couple days of pheasant hunting. On the last evening, tired and freshly showered, one of the hunters, Nick, joined us in the kitchen.

Nick is a young, friendly, short, hairy, Italian guy. His brown flannel shirt was only half buttoned and I teased him that his thick matte of chest hair made it impossible to tell where his shirt stopped and his chest began.

We shared a collective chuckle at Nick’s expense, but he’d evidently been the brunt of that joke before, and he was not to be outdone.

Nick: If you think I’m hairy, you should have seen my Dad! When I was a kid I used to ride him around the house bare-back, like a horse. He was so hairy I hung on by grabbing a clump of back hair in each fist.

Our chuckle turned into a roar as we imagined the scene.

Nick: He was so hairy that my Mom got tired of washing the bed sheets every week to clean the hair off. It took me a long time to realize that not every family vacuumed the sheets!

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