The first time we owned a dryer was in California.  I say we owned it but that is a misnomer. It came in the house we were renting, and since the landlord was three thousand miles away I could pretend it was ours. But owning things necessitates taking care of them, and I was uninformed about lint. 

When I did laundry in Florida the sun shone brightly every day and I hung the clothes to dry. In New Mexico we were in an apartment and I used the laundromat. In California I had the convenience of a washer and dryer right next to the kitchen and I ran two or three loads after breakfast.

Eventually, the clothes were still damp after the amount of time I usually set the timer to. I turned the dial and let it run a bit longer. After a few months it seemed not to be making any difference at all. I figured the machine was broken. 

"I am going to call a repairman. The dryer doesn't work," I told John.

"Did you check the lint filter?" 

Awkward silence. He walked over and tried to pull it out, but it seemed stuck. He used more force and yanked out enough lint to stuff a bed pillow. 

How about that. It worked fine after all.

A friend mentioned that her husband collects her lint every day. By that she means that he lets her pull off all the worthless bits of stuff that cling to her: the annoyances, and unsettling conversations, the unfinished tasks and second guessings.  He behaves as if there is nowhere else he needs to be.