I Know My Stockings Are Dirty

Here in Uganda, a lot of things are done differently than what I was accustomed to in America. We drink tea even when it is hot out. We say “I’m going to win you” in a game instead of “I’m going to beat you.” We don’t show our thighs because that is downright scandalous. And we wash our clothes by hand.

Honestly, I don’t mind the hand washing so much. It takes a little while, but there is a sense of satisfaction in scrubbing the red dirt out of a pair of trousers that you don’t get if you let a machine do all the work. I have callouses on my hands from ringing out my wet clothes. I have learned that a scrub brush gets dirt out better than using my fingers as a washboard (and it is much less painful). The downside is that things don’t shrink back to size so well when you ring them out by hand and dry them in the sun—last week I had to literally hold up my running shorts while jogging, but maybe if I eat enough that will no longer be a problem.

My favorite time to do washing is sock day. You see, I have twelve pairs of neon colored socks that look fabulous on the line in front of my house, so of course I have to wait and wash them all at the same time. A neighbor once told me we should hang my socks in the children’s home for the next birthday instead of colored banners. When no one is around, I sometimes stand on my verandah or in front of my house, admiring the colors and festivity of the occasion. But only when no one is around to see me staring at my socks.

 The children don’t find them as beautiful as I do. The first time I put them on display, many people were quick to point out that most of my stockings were still dirt-stained. The thing is, my feet are always dirty. In sandals or running shoes, my feet turn dark tan by the end of each day, and every night I wash off my tan before going to bed. The red dirt roads are dusty in the dry season and muddy when it rains, and my socks seem to be magnets for this soil.

Despite the dirt, I don’t spend much time or effort washing my socks. My logic is that I only wear them when I go for jogging, so why would they ever need to be clean? Aside from when we hang them for a birthday, that is. They are only going to get dirty within thirty seconds of putting them on, so as long as they don’t smell they are clean enough for me.

It soon became common knowledge that Auntie Katie doesn’t know how to wash stockings. I have to admit, it’s not a reputation I ever expected.

During my last sock washing day, I decided to avoid the comments of  “Auntie Katie, why did you hang up dirty stockings?” and “Auntie Katie, let me teach you how to scrub your stockings.” When I hung up my festive footwear, I also hung two signs on the line. The first read:

(Auntie Katie knows her stockings are dirty. It doesn’t bother her.)

And the second:

(If it bothers you, feel free to wash them yourself.)

Beneath my clothesline, I left a basin of water and a bar of soap. The first few people to pass my house stopped to read the signs, chuckled, and moved on. At most, I hoped to give everyone a good laugh when they stopped by that afternoon. Then I left for an hour.

When I returned that evening, I walked onto a verandah with six girls… who were washing my socks. All my socks. They were re-hanging the last pair just as I arrived, and every single stocking on that line was spotless. Their aunties taught them well, I must say.

I was told later that during band practice (which happens every evening in front of my house), one of the girls kept glancing up at my line, reading the signs and scrutinizing the stockings. Finally, she shook her head, said, “It bothers me!” and proceeded to scrub my socks one by one. As with most things here, several people soon joined in and within minutes even the light colored socks had not a hint of red dust. It was incredible!

They wanted to show me how they did it, but I tried in vain to explain that it’s not that I don’t know how to wash socks; it’s that I don’t care enough to scrub them myself.

While comical, the whole thing left me with a bit of a dilemma. If I hang up socks washed to my standard next time, it’s like I am asking the children to come make them sparkle again, and that is completely unnecessary. However, I still don’t care enough to scrub them myself. Maybe I’ll have to hang them inside… or maybe I should stop washing altogether and start hanging dirty laundry on the line instead.

Oh, the woes of missionary life.