Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

I had just returned from my vacation and was unloading my truck the other day, It wasn’t until then, when I began carting things into the house, that I realized I had brought five pair of shoes. I didn’t even know I owned five pair of shoes.
I had my new sneakers, I was wearing them. There were my old, comfortable sneakers, which are pretty much falling apart and have holes, but I love them. There were my hiking boots, my sandals and a pair of water shoes.
I never wore the water shoes the entire time I was away.
I lined all my shoes up on the deck. They were all pretty tattered and worn, but for the most part comfortable. How did I ever get so many pairs of shoes? I suppose each pair has it’s speciality. I wouldn’t wear my sandals when hiking up a mountain, or my boots when canoeing. Sneakers are pretty universal, but those water shoes really have a limited use.
Why do we need all these speciality shoes? Cowboys wore cowboy boots, I’d bet that neither Jesse James, nor Wyatt Earp had sandals or sneakers in their closet. They lived in their boots.
Loggers wear heavy work boots. Back in the 20th century, they’d set them beside the bunk at night and put them on again in the morning. Even on a day off, they were in their boots. They only needed one pair of shoes.
Fishermen wear rubber boots. They’re in wet conditions all the time. When they’d get off the boat, they’d go home, leaving the rubber boots by the door, the next morning they put them back on and head for the water.
It use to be that everyone had one sturdy, serviceable, pair of shoes and pretty much lived in them.
I remember when ESPN first came on the scene and announced that they would be televising sports and only sports 24 hours a day. Who then believed that possible. But, they did and today ESPN is an empire.
Back in the day to buy shoes you went to the general merchandise or hardware store, or maybe to Woolworth’s or the Ben Franklin 5&10. These places sold everything. Then along came outfits like Tom McCann. No, people said. A store that sells just shoes. I refer you back to ESPN.
It is an age of specialization. Now we have shoes for almost every purpose, even shoes that serve no purpose.
For some shoes have become a fetish item. Look at Imelda Marcos, the wife of once Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos. When Marcos was deposed, his wife’s shoe fetish was exposed. The world cried foul. The Philippine nation was corrupt and going hungry, while the president’s wife had thousands of pairs of shoes. Her over-stuffed shoe closet made headlines around the world.
But the uproar quickly died as women across the globe came, not necessarily to the defense of Mrs. Marcos, but to the defense of the shoe – lots of shoes..
I’m a little embarrassed that I have five pairs of shoes, it seems a bit excessive. But, to those who swoon over footwear, five is nothing.
According to Consumer Reports the average American woman has 17 pairs of shoes.
I’d bet that’s low.
It doesn’t seem to matter if they are impractical, they can be irresistible. In fact Consumer Reports goes on to claim that a third of the American women that they polled, have given into the temptation, at least once, to spend more than $100 for a pair of shoes. They have even admitted to willingly suffering uncomfortable or painful shoes for the sake of fashion.
What’s that old saying? “If the shoe hurts, toss it!”
How many women have seen a pair of shoes, just had to have them, tried them on, and never wore them again? I’m told just trying on and buying a pair of shoes can be very exciting. Apparently, shopping for and buying shoes can be therapeutic as well. Shopping for shoes can effect mood. It can ease depression or simply cheer you up. Dropping a $100 on a pair up pumps, I’m told, can make your day.
I don’t know any men that collect shoes, but there are probably some out there.
My water shoes cost $10 and I’ve probably worn them a total of three weeks. At that price, it could be argued that they were worth the purchase, as I’ve walked a lot of rocky river bottoms in those shoes. My old sneakers cost $75, but I wore them almost exclusively year round for two years. I think they paid for themselves. My hiking boots cost $65. I bought them about six years ago and have used them countless times. They were a good deal. My sandals cost $25 and I wear them around the house all morning. I’ve had the sandals for about three years. Then their are my new sneakers. I paid $85 for them about a month ago and expect them to last a couple of years. Silly me, I guess I’ve never considered fashion when buying shoes. I buy what fits.
So why do we need all these shoes? I don’t think we do, however, some of us simply must have more shoes, we crave shoes and, will go hungry in order to buy that 17th pair. Like a lot of things in our consumer culture, Madison Avenue has us believing that we must have lots of shoes, and in order to feed that hunger, manufacturers have made shoes for almost every purpose.
Whet the heck is a casual shoe? I think all my shoes are casual. How about a work shoe? I can work in almost any pair of shoes, however, I admit that there are some lines of work that necessitate certain footwear. Most of us don’t do those things, yet we have shoes we consider work shoes, but they’re probably just casual.
When I was growing up playing sports we had cleats. Now there are football, baseball, golf, soccer and more kinds of cleats. Is this science or Madison Ave.? They rarely call them cleats anymore, they’re shoes. Mom’s going to buy you shoes, but maybe not cleats..
Do we need these different cleats/shoes, or do we just think we do because that’s what we’re told? Either way we must have them.
I was never very good at much in my cleats, but back then everyone had just the one pair of cleats and used them regardless of the sport. Maybe that was my problem.
For the shoe-addicted, the shoe speciality shop, spawned by the likes of Tom McCann, have become the opium dens of the 60’s. A place to hang with kindred spirits and get high off the scent of new shoes. They’ve become a place to groove to the latest pair of boots, fantasize over flats, salivate over sandals or rock-out with a pair pumps. A place to throw your cares to the wind, dream and let the mood take you. Forget time, forget place, let your mind go. Racks, stacks and tables of shoes await.
We all need to take a lesson from the horse. A horse only has one set of shoes. When those wear out, someone just nails on a new pair.
I’m going to go throw away those old sneakers and I don’t think I’ll be replacing them with something new in my closet, no matter how good it feels.

It had been raining for days on end. I was going out of my mind in my two-man tent. Everything was wet, my clothes, sleeping bag, blankets, pillows, everything. I needed to get inside for a couple of nights, but to drive into a town and check into a motel would definitely make me a sissy.
Bouncing around on the muddy, dirt roads in the woods was taking a toll on my truck. I had a half tank of gas and a five gallon can. I was probably good to go a long way, but even with the heater going in my truck, everything was cold and wet. I needed to find a cabin with a wood stove. There are places like that, so I set off into the woods to look.
“Oh, and it’s out back,” she said as if I’d know what she meant. I did. The cabin I had found had an outhouse outback, most did. But what I was interested in most was the wood stove. I thanked her and threw my bag of clothes on the bed. A real bed!
Before long I had the stove going and could feel the heat beginning to  fill the small cabin. I set a chair (the only chair) next to the stove and propped my feet on the bed. I had about a six pack of beer and I cracked one.
The cabin was on a pond and I was told that it was surrounded by mountains, which I couldn’t see because of the fog. There was a hand pump at the sink for water and a well outside the front door. I could make my morning coffee right on the wood stove, which I planned to burn all night. There was plenty of wood stacked in the corner.
There was an oil lamp in the cabin for light and I had my head lamp. Before I cracked that second beer, I figured I have a better look around my cabin which was probably in the neighborhood of 15×15 feet. There was a small cabinet on the other side of the bed. Being curious and with nothing else to do, I figured I’d have a look inside. Edging up between the bed and the wall to get to the cabinet, I kicked something with my foot. It felt heavy so I bent down for a look. It was a faded off-white ceramic pot with a lid that was beginning to show some cracks. I lifted it up onto the bed to get a better look and see if there was anything inside.
But then I figured out what it was before I opened it, a chamber pot. Now I had never come across one of these before. I moved it off the bed and set it on the small cabinet. Returning to my chair by the wood stove I opened my second beer and proceeded to ponder the chamber pot.
Before indoor plumbing it was common to use a chamber pot, rather than go outside should nature call in the middle of the night. I stared at the pot. Was it clean? Had it every been used? When was the last time and by who? I hadn’t notice the time slipping away, but that second beer was gone. I walked over to my cooler and took out another. Returning to my chair by the stove, I again propped my feet on the bed and continued to ponder the chamber pot. It was still raining outside and getting dark.
There were no directions with this thing and the lady hadn’t mentioned it. What were you supposed to do with the contents once it had been used? Toss it out into the night? That didn’t make sense. I guess you saved it until morning and I suppose you could add to it if it was a particularly busy night. How did you wash it out, or did you? And what if you had company? How much would it hold?
I finished beer number three. Maybe it was all the beer or maybe it was thinking about the chamber pot, but I had to go.
I grabbed my headlamp, said no offense to the chamber pot and stepped out the door. I could hear loons on the pond. It was still raining, but I wasn’t too concerned about getting wet. I had a nice warm fire now.
I walked around the back of the cabin, but didn’t see the outhouse. One of the beauties of being in the woods is peeing in the woods, but I was curious. Where was the outhouse. I realized it wasn’t too smart to have waited until after dark to go looking for it. I had just assumed it was right behind the cabin.
With the headlamp I found a path. It looked to be the only one, so I followed it figuring somewhere along or at the end of the path I’d find the outhouse. Maybe 10-yards down the path I remembered toilet paper. I didn’t have any with me. That wasn’t why I was making this trip, but I made a mental note to put the paper in the outhouse if I ever found the damn thing. I just knew the next time, when I might need the TP I’d forget it.
Water dripped from the trees and the rocks and roots under foot were slippery. It was muddy, dark and beginning to cool off. I had taken off my boots, and like a fool left the cabin in my sandals. After all, the lady had said, just outback.
I figured I had to be 25-yards or more into this trip and scanning the dark woods with my headlamp, I still saw nothing like an outhouse.
Finally, I gave up and relieved myself in the woods. Still, I wanted to know where the outhouse was. What if I had to go in the night. I wasn’t using the chamber pot, I wasn’t sure what the proper chamber pot etiquette was.
This was turning into a hike. I was beginning to feel like I should have packed a lunch, when I saw something in the beam of the headlamp. There it was, red painted plywood off in the trees. I didn’t need to go now, but I had come so far I just had to have a look.
Rain water dripped off the tin outhouse roof onto me as I spun the wooden latch. I just don’t want things dripping on me when I’m walking into a strange outhouse in the middle of the woods in the dark. It was getting creepy. The place seemed wrapped in spider webs. I hate it when you get them on your face. Wiping off the spider webs, I opened the door and let the beam of my headlamp scan inside. Instantly I was hit by an overpowering smell – of lilacs. There was a vase of flowers on the bench inside – real flowers, mostly daisies. The lilac smell came from an air freshener. There were two TP dispensers, one a typical roller on the wall, the other a separate free-standing hand carved wooden box with a spool inside and a spare roll of paper in a small cabinet below. All together there were three new, unused rolls of paper. What luxury!
Next to the flowers was a stack of magazines. By now I was inside the outhouse looking around. There were current issues of Time, People, Audubon, Downeast and Northern Woodlands magazines. On the wall to the right was a framed topographical map of the area. I bent down to have a closer look. I found the pond and sure enough the lady was right, the pond was surrounded by mountains.
On the opposite wall were hanging pictures of birds, blue jays and chickadees and in the corner a broom and a bucket of fresh pine and cedar wood shavings with a scoop. All the way inside now, I closed the door. On the back of the door were framed verses from poems, that must mean something to someone. I suppose if you finish browsing through all the magazines while sitting there, you could always ponder some poetry.
I had to do it. Who can enter a place like this and not. I carefully lifted the lid prepared for the worst. It was actually quite pleasant, as these things go. Inside the toilet seat someone had hand-painted an attractive and colorful scene of loons on the pond, accurate right down to their red eyes.
I closed the lid and sat down. This place was pretty nice. I picked up a magazine and found myself staring at Jennifer Aniston. If she only knew the range of her popularity. I found myself wishing I had brought along a beer and maybe a snack.
It was still raining outside and I didn’t want to leave the wood stove alone for too long. If I burned the cabin down I might be sleeping in the outhouse. As nice as it was, it didn’t have a bed. There was a bottle of fresh-scented hand sanitizer next to the seat. I took some and headed back to the cabin.
After my trip out back to la petite maison, I knew there would be no reason to use the chamber pot. I wished I had a 10-foot pole as I slid it back under the bed and quickly washed my hands. Propped up in my chair next to the wood stove life was good. I had heat, a bed and one of the sweetest little spots in the woods.

I had taken a ride up the Golden Road to take some pictures of a couple of favorite spots, the dri-ki piled up at the foot of Caribou Lake and Mount Katahdin from the Abol Bridge. It had rained all night, but there was the promise of a little sunshine later in the morning, before more rain moved in during the afternoon.
I was camped up above Moosehead Lake, so this ride would be about a 100-mile round trip. I had the time, as with all the rain I had slowed down on my hiking and climbing because of the conditions. Not only were the trails muddy, or in many cases flooded, but the wet, slippery rocks and roots made any uphill trek even more difficult. Being alone, I didn’t want to have something happen.
The Greenville and the Golden roads are heavily travelled by logging trucks, which tear them up. They are gravel roads and some of the holes, once they get started, can get pretty deep. It was Sunday and the trucks didn’t run, so I didn’t have to worry about running into one of them.
I bounced and rattled up the Greenville Road onto the Golden Road, which after a few miles was actually paved. That’s when the conditions got worse. The paved surface was ripped up even more, and unlike the gravel road, you couldn’t run a grader over it to smooth it out. Some of the holes were worse than anything I’ve seen on Boston streets, which means the pot holes were worse than the streets of Berlin after a 1945 bombing run.
I heard the metal on metal clanging. It sounded like something coming loose under my truck. I pulled over and crawled under the truck, but once stopped everything strangely stopping banging. I got back in and drove some more. The rattling and banging increased. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I kept smashing down into the huge pot holes. And then it stopped. I drove a little further. Nothing. I got out and crawled back under the truck. Nothing moved.
Who knows. Maybe something fell off, a skid plate or a clamp. I was about 30 miles from Millinocket and it was early Sunday morning. My tent and all my stuff was in the woods north of Moosehead Lake. Good riddance, was all I could think at the time, still I drove cautiously.
I figured I should head for Millinocket just in case. One of the few places open were a gas station and a donut shop. I got some gas and a dozen donuts, what else could I do?
I was a long way from camp and didn’t want to go over the Golden Road again. The only other feasible option was to take Route 11 south and cut across the Katahdin Ironworks Road to Greenville and then up the Lily Bay Road. That could take up to two hours, but I just wanted nothing to do with the Golden Road.
Route 11 was an easy, paved secondary highway without a lot of bumps. But the K-I Road was gravel. I’d have to take it easy. I just wanted to get back to camp and worry about the truck the next day. Crossing the K-I would take about an hour. I had been on it the day before and knew if I drove slowly, I’d be fine.
Not long into the trip, as I approached the point where the K-I crossed the Appalachian Trail, a hiker stepped into the road in front of me waving his arms for me to stop. I slowed as he came up to the window.
“There is an injured hiker in the woods,” he pointed up the trail. “He slipped on a rock and hurt his leg. He needs to get to Greenville. Are you going that far?”
“I’m heading for Greenville,” I said out the window as I pulled the truck to the side of the road. I got out of the truck and walked over to where the trail crossed the road. The hiker had gone back up the trail to help the injured man. When they got to the road the man was walking on his own, however, limping badly.
The hiker put his hand on the injured man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he said.
I helped the injured man off with his pack and put it in the bed of my truck. As I did, the injured man limped over to the drivers door and was about to get in.
“I’ll drive,” I said motioning for him to go around to the passengers side.
“Do you have any water?” the other hiker asked. I had a case of bottled water in the truck and I gave him a couple of bottles. He thanked me and walked across the road and into the woods.
The injured man had meanwhile climbed into the passenger seat. It turned out that they were not hiking together. The first hiker had come across the injured man on the trail and was giving him a hand.
I got in and held out my hand introducing myself. He shook my hand, but I had no idea what he said. He was Chinese and all I got was Lee.
“Your name is Lee?” I asked. It wasn’t but I was very close.
“What happened” I asked pointing to his leg.
Lee went off in what I assumed was Chinese, I think, explaining to me what had happened. There was a little English mixed in and I was able to determine that he had slipped on a rock and fallen.
“Are you a thru-hiker, are you headed for Katahdin?” He seemed to understand me, because he launched into a lengthy story about how he had just gotten on the trail in Monson, about 25 miles south of Greenville. He was hiking alone. He had eaten all his food and had no water left, and thought he had too much stuff in his pack as it was very heavy. He had lost his footing and fallen, twisting his leg. Lee was very upset that he wasn’t going to reach Mt. Katahdin.
With some difficulty in translation, he explained to me his new plan, to rest in Greenville and once better, return to the trail. Lee was determined to finish, even though he had really just begun.
The Appalachian Trail begins in Georgia. Some hikers begin as early as February to make the 2,160 mile hike. Lee has gotten on the trail in Monson and hiked a day, maybe two before his fall. He’d spent at least one night in the woods and eaten all his food. He covered maybe 25-30 miles and had about another five to seven days to go. He was off to a bad start.
As best I could tell Lee was from China and was not a hiker. He worked in an office, rarely getting outside. It was like he had just dropped into the woods from the moon.
He was talking away, but I really wasn’t understanding. I did get that he had not had anything to eat all day and was out of water. He was wet from all the rain and pretty muddy.
Then it dawned on me. “You’re hungry, right?” Lee nodded a little sad.
“Do you like donuts?” I asked.
He just looked at me with a puzzled expression.
I stopped the truck and got out. We were on a gravel road in the middle of the woods. He really must have wondered what I was doing. When I got back in the front seat I was holding an open box of a dozen assorted donuts. Lee’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. I set the dozen donuts in his lap.
“Help yourself,” I said reaching behind my seat.
He was on his second donut before I pulled the two cans of beer from the rear seat pocket.
“Do you like beer?” I said handing them both to him. Lee looked like he would cry. He said something in Chinese while nodding his head, but even if his mouth wasn’t full of donuts I don’t think I would have understood, but I knew what he meant.
We continued our slow roll toward Greenville, with Lee spitting donuts all over the passenger’s side of the truck while speaking Chinese. So far there was no metal banging and clanging beneath the truck..
Lee was living the dream. He finished about three donuts per beer. Fortunately I had more beer. Crumbs fell like rain from his mouth, and he was thirsty enough to guzzle the first couple of  beers and before I knew it he was asking for a fourth. He had eaten about seven or eight donuts by this time.
“I guess you were hungry Lee,” I said in response to a long speech in Chinese, “and pretty thirsty too.”
We were getting near Greenville. Lee was rattling around in his empty beer cans, with a nearly empty donut box on his lap. He had vanilla and chocolate icing on his chin and a bit of jelly to the side of his mouth and white powdered sugar on his heavy black-rimmed eye glasses. He let out a loud belch and smiled. Then he said something, which of course I didn’t understand. When he grabbed his crotch; I got the point and pulled over.
Smiling and nodding his head, while babbling a mile-a-minute in Chinese, Lee stumbled off the road into the woods. I guess he was pretty particular about his privacy, because he didn’t just stop at the side of the road to go, he staggered off into the woods.
Now I’m trying to be the good Samaritan and help out my fellow man, but how long was I supposed to wait. After five minutes I got out of the truck and shouted for Lee a couple of times. After about 10 minutes I walked into the woods, still calling his name. Where the heck did this guy go? There was no reason to run off, we were nearly in Greenville and his backpack was in the back of the truck.
“Lee!” I continued to shout. I looked to see if I could find a trail or anything that might indicate where he had gone. Nothing.
“Lee you crazy bastard, where the heck did you go?” I continued to shout.
He had that leg injury and could not have gone too far.
“Lee, come on man, where are you?” still nothing.
I went back to the truck. Maybe it was more than just pee. I figured I give him some more time. If he was squatting up against a tree, I could understand him not answering and calling me over. Another 10 minutes or so went by and still no sign of Lee. By this point he’d had enough time to read the entire Sunday Cape Cod Times, if he had had one. Maybe it was the donuts and beer. I began to wonder. Could Lee have gotten sick after eating a dozen donuts and swilling four beers. Maybe he wasn’t used to it. And if he hadn’t eaten all day and that was all he had, maybe he’d gotten sick.
“Lee!” I shouted out the passenger window.
“Lee, are you okay?” Still nothing from the wet woods.
We’ll, he did have all that sugar icing on his chin and jelly on his face. Maybe a bear ate him. No, I’m sure I would have heard the screams.
“Lee, brother if you don’t come out of the woods, I’m going to leave you here,” I figured I throw out a threat and maybe make him hurry.
After about a half hour I figured Lee’s time was up.
“Okay you crazy fool,” I shouted at the apparently empty woods. “I’m outta here.”
I got out of the truck and walked around to the tailgate, opening the back I pulled out his backpack.
“Lee, I’m leaving your pack here beside this tree,” I shouted as I set it off to the side of the road. I also left him some water.
I got back in the truck, but was feeling terrible about leaving. How had this guy become my responsibility?
“Greenville is about two miles down the hill,” I shouted and rolled up the window.
I started the truck and blew the horn. Nothing. I rolled ahead about 40 yards. There was nothing in the rear view mirror.
“Crazy Chinese guy,” I mumbled to myself as I backed up.
“Lee, lets go buddy,” I was wasting my breath.
The next day I had to go into Greenville to do some laundry. I figured I’d also look for Lee. I had told him about the campground just outside of town. If he had a tent in his pack, which he probably did, I expected to find him camped there nursing his sore leg.
I checked in the office for a Chinese gentleman named Lee something. They knew who I was looking for and told me where he was camped. I drove over to his site. Lee was there and he immediately recognized me and the truck. He had a big smile on his face as I got out of the truck.
“Lee, where did you go yesterday?” I asked as we shook hands.
He answered something about walking in the woods, but I didn’t understand him.
“Well you made it here safely,” I noted. “So what now?”
He said something about his injured leg and resting. Then he lit up in a huge smile and said something else, but all I caught was donuts.
“Did you like the donuts?” I asked.
I don’t know what he said, but he was pretty excited and I heard the word donut more than once. With my international diplomacy accomplished, I wished him luck, shook his hand and drove away. I don’t know what became of Lee. He may have developed an insatiable donut and beer habit, grown fat and still be living at the campground. Or he may have made it to Katahdin.

I don’t remember the last time I was in a laundromat. It had been raining for days and most everything I had was wet to some degree. I had some washing to do and plenty of things to dry. I knew I’d probably need quarters to run the machine. Luckily I had a couple of dollars worth in the ashtray of the truck.
I threw my dirty clothes and some wet towels, blankets, pillow cases, and shirts into the passenger seat of the truck and headed for town. It was still raining and there wasn’t much else to do, but maybe drink. I figured if I did the laundry in the morning, I’d still have the afternoon and if it was raining, maybe I’d have a beer.
Before I go any further, will someone out there please invent a washing machine, dryer and soap dispenser that allows you to swipe a credit or debit card in order to operate it. It turns out that to do laundry, you need more than a few quarters from the ashtray, you need to go to the bank and get a bag full.
Anyway, I guess going to the laundromat on a rainy day it something other people do as well. A lot of other people. They needed valet parking at this place. It turns out this was the only laundromat within probably a 50-mile radius.
It was too early to drink, or I certainly would have not have bothered to go in. It was eight o’clock in the morning, borderline drinking time for some people.
I gathered up my stuff from the passenger seat and headed in. There was quite a crowd, but my eyes were on the machines. I saw one, and only one, with the lid up. Unlike a toilet seat lid, this meant it was not in use.
I quickly made my way to the machine and dumped my arm load of clothes on top of the open machine, laying claim. Right away I could see I had too much for one load, but it was the only machine, so I’d have to choose what to wash and what to bring back out to the truck.
I stuffed what I needed to wash into the machine and closed the cover, that’s when I noticed the quarter slots – eight of them. It was two dollars for a tiny load of laundry. What a ripoff, I thought. I pulled my quarters out of my pocket and began to count. Luckily, I had nine quarters, one more than I needed.
It was then that I looked around the laundromat for the first time. I think I was the only guy. The place was crowed, awash in estrogen. A bunch of college-age girls were sitting on the clothes folding counter in the far corner laughing loudly about something. What I later learned to be several young mothers were hanging out on some chairs over by the wall engaged in rapid conversation. It seems when camping on a rainy day you leave the kids with dad and the moms gather at the laundromat for some girl talk. I think I saw one little kid the entire time I was there. There were some girls that looked to be pre-teens, and a number of just single women ranging from age 30 to, I’d guess, the one bent over in the back corner was about 80.
As I began to put my quarters into the slots, the woman using the machine next to me walked over and lifted the lid to her machine. Her wash had just finished. I must have done a double take as she looked just like someone from work. I was about to say something when she pulled a pair of pink bikini panties out of the washer and held them up with both hands as if inspecting or admiring them. She gave them a shake and a stretch and tossed them into a clothes basket at her feet. That stopped me cold. She looked at me and smiled.
“Jesus,” I thought, “this has got to be illegal somehow?”
I looked away without saying a word. I felt like a Peeping Tom. Was I some kind of a pervert?
I quickly shoved the tray with my eight quarters into the machine and marched out of the building. I think I was having trouble breathing.
I don’t remember the last time, if ever, a woman has held such a seductive pair of underwear up in front of me and handled them like that. I figured I’d better go sit in my truck and calm down.
I was watching my wrist watch waiting for my 30 minutes to be up. But I was also wondering what else she had in that washing machine. Those pink bikini panties were tattooed to my brain.
With five minutes still to go, I climbed out of the truck and with a mixture of hesitation and excitement, headed back into the laundromat.
My washing machine was on spin. That seemed good. The college-age girls were still over in the corner, now folding clothes. I think they had probably tried to wash and dry as much of their stuff as possible, because what they were wearing was just enough for them to get by without me being arrested.
The collection of young mothers had moved around the room. Some were working the washing machines, others the dryers or folding clothes. The pre teens were now giggling over on the chairs by the wall. She of the pink bikini panties was leaning seductively against the wall across from the dryers. All sorts of visions raced through my head. I had to look away.
My machine stopped and I opened it up. That was when I realized that I had mixed my colors, leaving me with some pink socks, and I had forgotten to add detergent. Here I was, the only guy in the place and I had everything screwed up. All the guys that aren’t stuck in a tent somewhere with screaming kids must be bellied up to a bar laughing over a beer, I thought. I was feeling very inadequate. I can do laundry. I do it at home. It must have been those pink bikini panties, images of which were lighting up my thoughts like Time Square.
I didn’t have a basket. Again, I bundled my laundry in my arms, now even wetter than before, and walked over to the dryers. My heart skipped a beat and I may have blushed. The only dryer available was right in front of Miss Pink Bikini Panties. I fumbled for the latch with my arms full of clothes and dropped a pair of blue boxer shorts on the floor. God! I was humiliated. Getting the door open I quickly tossed everything inside, and snatched the underwear off the floor throwing it inside and slamming the door.
I looked at her and she smiled again. I was hating this laundromat and loving it at the same time. With only one quarter remaining, I had to go over to the dollar bill changer for more. I figured I’d start with four quarters. Each quarter was good for six minutes of hot air. As the machine sucked in my dollar bill I glanced over at my dryer. There pinned up against the glass were my blue boxer shorts. Oh God, could it get any worse?
Grabbing my quarters I quickly retraced my steps to the dryer and dropped them in the slot starting everything tumbling. I turned and nodded at Miss Pink Bikini Panties and she said hi. I then happened to glance back at my dryer and in the machine next to mine saw the pink bikini panties tumble past the glass window. I think I began to sweat. I marched out of that place double time and planted myself back in my truck.
“What a jerk you are,” I said to myself. “You’re acting like a child.”
I was, and now I was feeling bad about myself. In my mind I recreated everything that had happen from the time I first walked into the laundromat. I was acting like a teenager. Determined to suck it up, I got out of the truck, took a deep breath, and marched back into the laundromat.
The college-age girls had left. That was both a good and bad thing, I wasn’t sure. Miss Pink Bikini Panties was over at the folding table. She did look remarkably like someone from work. I figured it would be best if I steered a wide path around the folding table. I walked over to my dryer and leaned against the opposite wall. One of the young mothers came over and put her laundry into the dryer vacated by you know who. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as she tossed things into the dryer. I still had about 10 minutes left on mine.
Oh good Lord, I thought as she finished and closed the dryer door. This time no women’s underwear! I looked at her and at the dryer twice, maybe three times, or four, it could have been five times. No underwear? Not even a bra? Maybe she didn’t wear… Again I ran from the laundromat as if my hair was on fire and jumped back in my truck.
What did that mean? What was I supposed to think? Should I be thinking about this at all?
It was still raining and I was a mess. What’s up with laundromats anyway? They rob you of your dignity, expose you to a room full of perverts and leave you an emotional wreck, but at the same time, I was coming to realize, laundromats could be pretty exciting. I had been alone in the rain in my tent far too long. I couldn’t wait for the bars to open.
Back inside, my clothes were done and for the most part dry, although in some cases not completely. But there was no way I was staying in that den of iniquity a moment longer. Again, I had no basket, so a gathered up my stuff and made my way to the folding counter. There I dropped everything and started to sort though my semi-dry clothes. For 25 cents you could by a plastic laundry bag. I had a quarter left. I dropped it in the slot and became the proud owner of a cheap, one-time use only, green mesh, plastic bag that probably cost two cents to make.
As I began folding my clothes the pre teen girls began to move closer. They were giggling and pushing one another. They took up a position behind me to my right and there they stayed giggling away. Juveniles with nothing better to do than hang around a laundromat I mumbled to myself.
Was it me, or every time I picked up a pair or my boxer shorts to fold did their giggling get louder? I was getting a little embarrassed. Maybe they should set an age limit for laundromat admittance of 18 or 21-years old and check ID’s at the door. What a cheap thrill, I thought. I wanted to turn around and say, “Grow up girls,” but thought better and just rushed though things not bothering to fold the final few items, just throwing them in the bag.
It was still early, but when the bars opened for lunch, I was at the door waiting. I had something to eat as well while I was there.
Washing, drying, detergent, fabric softener and laundry bag, six dollars. Pink bikini panties, or none at all, priceless.

She stared back at me, those big, deep, dark eyes enticing pools of desire. I was spellbound, watching in wonder. What was it about her that held my attention so intently? She took a step closer – so close I caught wind of her scent. The smell of dampness, decomposition and urine filled the air.
So began my day as a moose.
The rain wouldn’t stop. Sitting in my tent in the woods day after day was beginning to wear on my mind. But, even a short walk guaranteed I’d be soaked. It was early morning and the rain’s intensity seemed to let up, I heard just the dripping of the trees. I had to get out, maybe a walk down to the pond. I pulled aside the tent flap and that’s when I ran into her.
She enticingly wiggled her big floppy ears, all the while continuing to chew. Then she winked. I’m sure of it. I stepped out of the tent and stood silently. She winked again. I shook my head in disbelief. I had been in that tent a long time. She winked a third time, I’m sure it was an intentional wink.
“Did you wink at me?” I asked.
She looked right at me a let out a grunt. I lost something in the translation. But what the heck, I grunted back. She stopped chewing and stared directly into my eyes.
We seemed to connect.
There wasn’t another person for miles around, it was just the two of us. I didn’t know what to say.
“You’re a big one. What do you go – about 600 pounds?”
She lowered her head and slowly began to chew again. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say to a lady. Never mention her weight.
“That’s quite a set of hooves,” I was trying to be complimentary. After all, don’t most women have a shoe fetish? She continued to chew. Strike two.
“You’ve got a big butt,” I said, but got no response so quickly added, “It’s very shapely – you know, nicely proportioned.”
This time she raised her head and after a moment gave me another wink. Finally, I had hit on the perfect line. I had broken the ice. For the rest of the day we were inseparable.
I ripped off my clothes and together we went crashing through the alders. She took me to brunch at a nearby bog where we browsed on aquatic plants, willows and water lilies. She showed me how to tear plants from the bottom of the bog by submerging my entire head in the water. I think I impressed her with how long I could hold my breath.
After a quick snack of about 25 pounds of bog bottom, water plants and twigs, we headed for a nearby hiking trail. By now it was late morning and hikers were on the trails. We waited until there was no one near and together, crashing through the alders, we headed for the trail. My lady friend was in the lead. Once on the trail, just ahead of me, she let go with a huge release of Dunkin Munchkin size poop. Then she looked back at me. It was my turn. But I didn’t have to go – oh, wait a minute. Before I knew it I too deposited a respectably large pile of Munchkin poop on the trail. It must have been all that bog water. Quickly she crashed back into the alders. I followed. Hikers were coming up the trail. Side by side we hid in the bushes, watching.
I never thought about it before, but I suppose most times when I came across moose poop while hiking I did stop to look. This group for four people seemed fascinated with our poop. They gathered around it and pointed and oohed and aahed. My lady friend giggled.
The next group was a family and one of the kids stepped in our poop before realizing it was there. The little girl shrieked a high pitched, “Oh gross.” Her father looked back and smiled. “It’s just moose poop sweetie.”
My lady friend frowned in disgust. “If it had been dog poop, they would have stopped to scrape it off. No respect,” she mumbled, shaking her head and turning to walk away. Overall though it was a pretty good laugh.
We continued to walk through the woods together like two bulldozers ploughing our way through the low bushes. Every once in a while my lady friend would stop to munch berries. I was noticing what a well built woman she was.
That afternoon we came to a road. I could see it was a moderately travelled stretch of pavement, rippled by frost-heaves, with a yellow line down the middle. She stopped. I waited. Before long we could hear an approaching car. She smiled at me and winked.
Slowly she stepped to the roadside and nonchalantly began to browse on some grasses. The car came speeding around the corner. I had no sooner seen it, than I heard the tires screech as the driver stomped on the brakes. It stopped about 50 feet away and two people jumped out of either side, one with a camera, who immediately began taking pictures. My lady friend continued to browse as if the people weren’t there. They got back in the car and slowly drove past. She turned and came back into the woods where I stood, motioning that it was my turn.
“What’s the big deal,” I thought. But it seemed that messing with people was what moose did all day. Hearing another car approaching, I stepped to the roadside and began to munch the grasses.
It was the same thing. The tires screeched and a car full of people slowly rolled to a stop beside me. One woman was taking pictures out the side window. That’s when it dawned on me. I was naked. Moose don’t wear clothes. I was standing there beside the road in all my naked glory, and if you’ve ever noticed, a bull moose has plenty of naked glory to be proud of. Still, I was very self-conscious and bolted back into the woods. For the first time I realized that my lady friend was naked too. I managed to give her a bit of a closer look.
“That’s weird,” I thought as we both stood there. “She’s the pretty one, but I’m the one with the rack.”
We had had our fun, stopping traffic, watching people get excited, but I wondered who might see those pictures.
Together we spent the late afternoon nuzzling under a cool pine tree deep in the woods. I was growing captivated by her scent. After a quick nap, it was time to eat again, so together we crashed through more alders into another bog where we stood knee deep in the water and browsed the bottom for tasty tidbits. I could she that she was definitely impressed with how long I could hold my breath. Every time I raised my head and blew out a nose full of water, she giggled.
It had been raining all day, but I not longer seemed to care.
It was dark before we had our fill of bog plants. She caught my eye and with a nod of her head motioned for me to follow. When you’re as big as a moose, you can crash through the woods, so we did, making our way toward a highway. There was a fence along the highway, but my lady friend knew where there was an opening. She had been here before.
It was late and there wasn’t much traffic. We heard a car off in the distance getting closer. She didn’t move. It sped past at about 70 miles per hour. The next time we heard an approaching car she nudged me and winked. The headlights came into view. The car was approaching at a high rate of speed. Suddenly, with a burst of speed, my lady friend ran out in front of the car. The driver stomped on his brakes and the car went into a skid. He pressed on his horn as the loud blaring mixed with the squealing tires. My lady friend timed it perfectly, and just as the car neared her perfect, shapely backside, she raced off the other side of the road.
The car came to a stop and I could hear the driver swearing and cursing at my lady friend. Meanwhile, she stood in the darkness on the other side where I could hear her laughing. After he drove off, she came back to my side of the road.
“Your turn,” she winked.
I wasn’t sure what I had just witnessed. That car missed her magnificent butt by only a few feet.
“You’re some crazy moose,” I said. “What was that all about?”
“It’s fun,” she winked.
It was that damn wink again, probably that same one Eve gave to Adam as she handed him the apple.
“Look,” I began. “I’ve eaten from the bottom of bogs with you. I’ve pooped in public and stood naked on the side of a road while having my picture taken. But, running in front of traffic on a dark highway is where I draw the line.
She looked at me with those big, liquid, seductive eyes, her naked body glistening in the rain. Then she grunted. Between the winking and the grunting it was hopeless.
The headlights of another car came into sight. But, being a first timer, my timing wasn’t as good.
Onto the highway I dashed, but I was early. The driver saw me and went into a skid. Then he tried to turn away and the car began to spin. The light from the headlights flashed across the trees on both sides of the road. For a moment I could see my lady friend watching as the beams passed her. Between the noise of the squealing tires and the horn and the lights spinning around, I was frozen. Then I dawned on me that I was standing in the highway about to get mowed down. With all my moosely strength I made a leap for the far side of the road. The car spun past. I looked back before jogging into the woods. The car stopped spinning, and after a few minutes drove off. I was shaking.
The crash and snapping of alders next caught my attention and I looked up to see my lady friend. Her eyes sparkled. I got a double wink and one of the sexiest grunts I’ve ever heard. She stepped up to me and nuzzled my nose. What an incredible rush. I forgot all about the car.
I didn’t know what would happen at the stroke of midnight, whether I’d still be a moose or not. At that moment I wanted to be a moose forever.
“Next month is the rut,” she smiled coyly.
I knew what that meant. My knees wobbled with the thought of September.
“Do you mean it?” I asked.
She gave me another wink and a low moaning grunt.
The rut is like being Hugh Heffner on Viagra at a college sorority party.
“How will I find you?” I asked.
“Just rub yourself in urine and butt your head against a few trees really hard and I’ll come to you,” she began to back away. “It’s late. I have to go.”
I watched her large, but perfect butt knock over a rotted birch tree as she swayed away.
The next morning it was still raining. I looked around the tent. Same swampy mess. I fell back on my pillow and promised myself that that would be the last time I’d drink alone in my tent.

Birds Just Can’t Get Enough Of The Stuff

I didn’t have much time this week to watch the activity at my bird feeder. But I did read a little more in my bird book and it said – suet.

So what is this suet stuff? It’s animal fat. If you’re British it’s one of the yummy ingredients in English Christmas Pudding. I think it’s also used in making candles.

But the birds dig this stuff. So over the weekend I got some suet for my feathery friends. All day it had been the usual customers at the feeder, Black-capped Chickadees, White and Red-breasted Nuthatches, Red bellied and Downey Woodpeckers, Tufted Titmouse and Sunday a gathering of about eight Dark-eyed Juncos foraging around under the feeder. Nothing new, so I figured I’d put out the suet.

(more…)

Exciting Action-Packed Month Ahead

With the Ho Ho Holiday season behind us, many people glumly face the Ho Ho Humdrum months of winter that follow with their sights set on spring and the warm weather to come. But not so fast, February is one of the biggest months of the year in sports.

The kick-off to February actually comes a few days early when on January 30 the NHL will stage their 58^th Annual All-Star Game. That same day the NFL will hold the Pro Bowl Game from Honolulu, but in my house I never get to use the TV on a Sunday.

February has something for everyone and sports-speaking, it’s my favorite month.

The ATP World Tennis Tour opens the 2011 season in Brisbane, Australia with $372,000 in prize money on the line. That same day the Burton Canadian Snowboarding Open gets underway in Calgary.

Those are in other countries; like off-Cape. I’m not into that.

On the 4^th the 2011 Team USA Adult Badminton Trials will be held in California, I’ll miss that. I think there is an eclipse or something that day.

In Atlantic City on the 4^th the Championship Pro Martial Arts Ring of Combat XXXIV will take place at the Tropicana. For anyone in Atlantic City that day that doesn’t want to see the Ring of Combat, the Levon Helm Band will be playing at Harrah’s with admission as low as $211 per ticket.

I think money will be a little tight that week and I’ll probably miss both. (more…)

Someone To Hang Out With

I’ve decided that I need a sidekick. But I just don’t want any sidekick, I want someone else’s sidekick.

A sidekick is a specialist; always there at the right time, capable, funny, smart and just good company. The term, I believe is a 19^th century American word, but the act of being a sidekick goes way back in history. Sidekicks then didn’t know what they were.

Some of the earliest side kicks were Archilles and Patroclus from the Iliad and Moses and Aaron from the Bible. There were Enkidi and Gilgamesh from the Epic of Gilgamesh too, but I don’t think I’d want any of these guys as sidekicks.

Lewis and Clark were possibly the first famous pair of American sidekicks, but while I wouldn’t have minded taking the trip across the country with them, I think they’d be a little too stiff to be my sidekick.

We imported Don Quixote and his sidekick Sancho Panza, and Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick Dr. Watson, but it wasn’t until the late 19^th and early 20^th century that we started to see the typical sidekick in this country.

Sancho would be good if I wanted to fight windmills, but I don’t think so.

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy were a couple of fun sidekicks, but I’d always have to be slapping Laurel to get him to smarten up. I need a smarter sidekick.

The sidekick thing really got going in the mid 20^th century as Hollywood grabbed the idea. Jackie Gleason’s Ralph Kramden had his Ed Norton on the Honeymooners and Sky King had his niece Penny. That was always a little bit weird. Today Sky King would probably have to register as a sex offender just for taking Penny flying.

There was Timmy and Lassie. While I like dogs, I wouldn’t want one for a sidekick. In today’s world I’d have to carry a doggie-do bag and a poop-scoop everywhere we went.

Lewis and Martin were a couple of fun guys. The whiskey and women flowed 24-7 when they were together. We’d sing and tell jokes all day and night, never sleeping. I still like women, but I don’t like whiskey and I need my sleep, so that wouldn’t work.

I like Marshal Matt Dillon’s side kick Festus on Gunsmoke, but the limp? Otherwise I might consider Festus. I like the name.

How about Sheriff Andy and his sidekick Barney Fife from the Andy Griffith Show? I could be Andy, but that Barney was as dumb as a stump. I need a sidekick with a little more upstairs.

Here’s a definite contender to be my sidekick – Tonto. The Lone Ranger could always rely on Tonto to get him out of a jam. Like magic Tonto was always there. He was smart, unlike that boob Fife, and crafty. And he was an Indian. How cool would that be to have an Indian as a sidekick? I’m putting Tonto on my sidekick fantasy team list for now.

Batman had the Boy Wonder, Robin, but hanging around with boys and making them dress in tights would probably land me in jail. The Green Hornet had Kato, but I’m really not a big crime fighter and Kato would probably want to go out and chase bad guys all the time; the same with Starsky and Hutch.

Captain Kirk had Spock, but all that time away from home. How many times were Mrs. Kirk and Mrs. Spock on Star Trek? Not many. As a matter of fact I don’t think they were ever on. Maybe Kirk and Spock were driven into outer space by nagging wives.

Another possible for the fantasy team keeper list is Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Either one of these guys would be a good sidekick. Oh, wait, I think they might have died in the end.

How about Major Tony Nelson and Major Roger Healey from I Dream of Jeannie? These guys landed sitcom roles with Barbara Eden back in time when displaying one’s belly button was scandalous. You have to respect a guy who spent his time with a scantily clad Barbara Eden staring at her navel all day. Still, not sidekick material.

Here’s a sidekick that’s right up there with Tonto. Remember F Troop? Sergeant O’Rourke and Corporeal Agarn. That Agarn would be neat sidekick. What fun we’d have. He’s on the list too.

I suppose I could have a female sidekick. Adam had Eve, Fred had Ginger, but not in the biblical sense, I don’t think. Bonnie had Clyde, probably several times. What else is there to do when hiding out from the law? Tarzan had Jane (for sure). Living in a tree house with a half naked woman does sound appealing. I’d have to get rid of that monkey. I think I’ll put Jane on the fantasy team possible list.

Mork had Mindy (Nanu Nanu). Mindy was hot. Everyone knows Anthony had Cleopatra and even as kids we all knew there was a certain chemistry between Popeye and Olive Oyl.

You know, I don’t think I want a female sidekick; too many hassles. I’d rather join Kirk and Spock and spend my time in deep space.

The Odd Couple, Oscar Madison and Felix Unger were sidekicks and roommates. I’d probably end up shooting Felix in our first month together. Tim Allen and Al Boreland were sidekicks on the show Home Improvement. Al was a nice guy and he put up with a lot of crap from Tim; but, too much plaid.

Hawkeye and Trapper on MASH  were a couple of cool guys, but I wouldn’t want one as a sidekick. The practical jokes would get old after a while.

I know a sidekick for the list. How about Mini-Me, Dr. Evils miniature twin. A Mini-Me sidekick would be very cool. He’s on the list with Tonto, Agarn and Jane.

Cheech and Chong were a couple of crazy sidekicks, but what fun would either one be today with states de-criminalizing marijuana? Let’s see – Johnny Carson had Ed McMahon and Dave Letterman has Paul Schaffer. But they aren’t real sidekicks. They go home separately after work. It’s just business.

I’m not a movie person or I consider one of those Siskel and Ebert guys, probably the living one. Harry Potter’s sidekick Ron Weasley was a little slow. However, the witchcraft thing would be interesting.

Let’s see: Bert and Ernie,  Fred and Barney, Yogi and Boo-Boo, Woodstock and Snoopy, Calvin and Hobbs, Daffy Duck and Porky Pig, Quick Draw McGraw and Baba Looey, Sponge Bob Square Pants and Patrick, and Bevis and Butthead; no none of them. But I do like the idea of Gumby and Pokey. What’s wrong with Pokey? He’s a pony and everyone loves a pony. We could ride off into the sunset. Pokey is on the list.

It’s time to choose between Tonto, Corporeal Agarn, Jane, Mini-Me and Pokey.

It’s tough picking a new best friend and sidekick this way. It has to be someone that I can hang out with and do things with, have some fun. Okay, Jane’s out. It would get boring in that tree house after a few months and beside, there is that monkey. Beside that she’d probably nag me to death and want to spend time together swinging on vines. Mini-Me would be a boy-toy, show-off sidekick. While he’d be cool, what could we do? I’d probably step on him.

Okay, down to Tonto, Corporeal Agarn and Pokey.

All three have a lot going for them.

Humm…

Well, Pokey is a horse. True, he can talk, but I can’t bring a horse into the house, my wife wouldn’t buy it. Pokey is out, no animals. But notice he lasted on the list longer than Jane.

Down to Tonto or Corporeal Agarn.

I have to go with Tonto. He’s steady, loyal, brave and true. He would stand beside me no matter what. And he knows all that Indian stuff which is pretty cool. We could ride horses across the high chaparral, rescue damsels in distress, capture bad guys and do good. He’d probably be happy to get away from the Lone Ranger. What was with that mask anyway? Who was he fooling? I could begin going by the name, Kemo Sabe.

Tonto: Sp-Eng Trans, n. fool, dummy, stupid, idiot, adj. foolish, silly, idiotic, soft headed.

Kemo Sabe: There are several translations to this name. It probably means, trusty scout, one who is white, white shirt, friend to the Apache.

I think every once in a while when the Lone Ranger called his sidekick Tonto (stupid in Spanish), if you listen carefully, the Indian responded “qui no sabe” which in Spanish means clueless, or he who knows nothing. How disillusioning to know, that as I watched this show as a kid the Lone Ranger and Tonto were name-calling as they dodged a hail of bullets.

Anyway, if Tonto and I are going to be sidekicks I’d better brush up on my Spanish.

Thirty-Six Hours In A Hospital

It was scary, it was interesting, it hurt, but felt good. It’s hard to describe being operated on by a robot. As they strapped me onto the operating table I could see the robot waiting at my feet. It was a large white object with multiple arms, a video monitor and blue lettering in the otherwise sterile, cold steel room. There were five doctors and two nurses.

After wrapping me in those large belts onto the table, one of the nurses came over to me and said, “Here it comes,” meaning the anesthesia.

The next thing I knew I was semi conscious in an elevator going somewhere surrounded by masked people in blue scrubs. Later that day I woke up in a hospital room with three IV’s and a catheter all hung on a pole-like Christmas tree next to my bed and I was on oxygen. Just as they had promised, there was no pain.

That night the floor nurse came in and told me to get out of bed and go for a walk. They don’t fool around. I knew she was only saying it once and expected me up on my feet. Those nurses are an interesting mix, especially the ones in the operating room. They’re a mix of Parris Island Drill Sergeant and a sweet old grandmother. They are caring, understanding, knowledgeable, and professional and expect their orders carried out promptly and exactly.

I figured I’d better go for a walk.

With all of my equipment hung from the Christmas tree with care,  I carefully swung my feet out of bed and hit the floor. Still no pain. I grabbed the pole and shuffled out the door. I had no idea what time it was, even if it was day or night. The curtains in my room had been pulled and there were no windows to the outside in the hospital corridor. Others like me shuffled up and down the hall. Feeling somewhat self-conscious about wheeling my urine bag in public, I checked to see if anyone else was dragging a bag. I wasn’t alone.

I gave the nurse a feeble wave as I passed the nurses station and got a smile and reassuring nod of the head in return. There was another guy ahead of me in this procession of walking wounded and when he made the turn to head back up the hallway I pointed to his urine bag and said, “Nice color.”

The first thing that came to my mind once I had said it was, “What are you thinking? What happened to hello?”

“Thanks,” he answered and pointing to my bag said, “you too.”

We both forced a smile and continued on our way. The color of my urine had been the subject of conversation all day as doctors and nurses came and went from my room. I guess I figured everyone was into it. After that I thought to myself that should I encounter any beautiful women wandering the hallway I’d better come up with a better opening line.

This walking the halls was pretty cool. To entertain myself I counted the number of bags and monitors each fellow patient had hanging on their Christmas tree. There was one guy that looked like he was pushing along a satellite tower he had so many things on his pole. His urine looked nice too.

There is little privacy in a hospital and it seems most of the things they do to you are an assault on your dignity. That night a nurse, who spoke very little English came into my room. She was telling me something, but between the medication and her struggles with the language, I really had no idea what she was getting at. She kept pointing to my abdomen. She was really a sweet girl, dark hair, pretty smile and I was guessing Indonesian. After whatever it was she was saying to me, she checked all the bags hanging from my Christmas tree and walked over to the sink. I had the Red Sox game on the television and was focused on that when she came at me with purple examination gloves and a tube of something. She pulled back the sheet and lifted up my hospital grown and smiled.

I was mortified. I had needles in both arms attached to who knows what, an oxygen hose wrapped around my face and I was high as a kite on some nice drugs. I think Mike Lowell was at the plate when she went to work, smiling all the while and talking in mixed English and who knows what. It turns out I was getting a cleaning and dressing of some sort.

I haven’t spent a night in a hospital since I was 12. I was unfamiliar with the protocol. I felt like I should take her out to dinner or buy her flowers after that.

Next she grabbed this thing that looked like a bong. She handed it to me, and then grabbed one for herself. She took the mouthpiece and as she drew in breath, a ball inside the clear plastic bowl elevated and hovered until she removed the mouth piece and exhaled. The nurse then motioned for me to try. It was just like sucking on a pipe, without the smoke. I think it had something to do with lungs and breathing, I never could figure out what she was saying.

Anyway, we both took a few more drags on this pipe-like thing and I remarked, “Just like smoking a bong, isn’t it?”

She tipped her head and gave me a quizzical look. “What is a bong?” she asked.

So here I am, drugged out in a hospital bed puffing on a water pipe-like thing trying to explain a bong and what its purpose is to a woman who has just been rather familar with me.  Again language proved a barrier. I didn’t get past Woodstock and nudity before she smiled again, said something and left the room.

I have no idea what Mike Lowell did, but the Red Sox were losing.

I took a couple more pulls on the bong-thing and tried to pick up the game. About the sixth inning a Haitian guy came in speaking French. I must have looked French to him. I kept answering, “excuse me?” until he figured out I wasn’t French. Maybe I looked French after my clean-up and a few totes on the bong-thing.

It turns out he was a Personal Care Assistant assigned to me. He took my blood pressure and temperature and dumped my urine bag. I asked him what he thought of the color and he nodded and smiled, “good.”

We were back to English.

When he reached for the sheet I protested. The nurse was one thing, but I wasn’t giving every Tom, Dick, and Harry to come through the door a peek under the sheets. It turns out he just wanted to straighten them. Apparently my affair with the nurse had left the bed covers inappropriately disheveled.

He flitted around the small hospital room straightening things out and talking the entire time. After a while his heavily-accented mix of French and English was making sense. As I began to understand him more, I lost track of the Red Sox again. I looked up at the Christmas tree pole and all those bags draining into me. One of them, I thought, is either allowing me to understand French or maybe there was something in that bong. His words and sentences were all over the place, but for some reason I could understand. I flunked French my sophomore year in high school and aside from a couple of seedy subtitled B movies, I can’t remember hearing anyone speak it. There was that woman out in Truro, but that’s for another time.

I pointed out that the Red Sox were on, and did he follow the team. I guess not, as he came to the side of my bed and immediately launched into a philosophic diatribe on divinity. I think Francona pulled Beckett, what did that have to do with God?

The next thing I know I’m having a really heavy conversation with this guy about religious philosophy. We raced across the religious map sparing no sect, but what puzzled me most was that this guy wasn’t able to accept anything prior to Adam and Eve. We discussed not just the major religions, but even a few off the wall fringe group ideas. Still, nothing prior to Adam and Eve.

Every once in a while I’d say something that would seem to get him fired up and he’d start to pace. The room wasn’t that big. He could manage about three steps before it was time to pace in the other direction. All the while he was gesturing and rapidly speaking in his own perfect mix of French and English. This went on for about 15 to 20 minutes. I wondered about the other patients that he was supposed to be attending. I figured at any moment he’d try to convert me, but to what. This guy, as best as I can figure, subscribed to his own religion, one in which he took a little something from a lot of different places.

I was looking to end things, as the more passionate he became, the more French he spoke and I was having trouble following some of this thoughts and wanted to get back to the Red Sox.

I tossed out the Adam and Eve card.

“No,” he said adamantly. “It all began with Adam and Eve.”

I told him I wasn’t going to buy that, that there was more to it and that he should rethink some things. I realized I was tempting a jihad-type response, but he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’ll be back later tonight and we can talk more.”

I didn’t figure on being awake later on that night.

It seemed every hour or two during the night a nurse would come in and wake me up for something or another. I was beginning to think they were just checking to make sure I wasn’t dead. Whenever they dumped my urine bag, we’d always take a few moments to admire the color before letting it go.

The next morning three doctors at three different times came in for a peek under the sheets. The night nurse was back too for one more special moment before going off duty. I was advised that they would be sending me home if I could fart. I looked at the doctor, “You want me to what?” I asked somewhat incredulously.

“Can you pass gas, or have you?” he asked seriously.

I wanted to hold up my urine bag. I was proud of that and I wanted to show him how well I was doing and to please just let me go home.”

“You should be able to pass gas before you’re released,” he said stoically.

I’ve always been able to belch on command, so I let one rip.

“That’s encouraging,” he admitted, “but you need to pass gas out the other end.”

There was no fooling or impressing these doctors. They’re Harvard Medical School guys, some of them professors. He must have seen me wince.

“Don’t push!” his voice rose. “You’ll damage things. You have to pass gas without pressure.”

I felt like saying something to him in French, but they must have turned that drip off as I couldn’t think of a thing.

“I’ll be back,” he said as he left the room.

Now I was pissed-off and puzzled. They weren’t going to let me go home until I farted and I desperately wanted to go home. A nurse came in.

“Hey, I just farted,” I said feeling a little bit like Rodney Dangerfield.

I could tell she didn’t believe me. I thought to myself, “why in the world am I telling women I don’t know that I cut a fart?” This whole hospital stay was just getting too weird.

“It’s important that you pass gas before you leave,” she reprimanded me. “It’s for your own good. Believe me; you don’t want to experience those gas pains.”

“Hummm?” I thought. “I got to figure this out. I have to fart, but not push.”

I asked for some ginger ale figuring the carbonation would give me gas. They brought me apple juice. Apparently I was on a no carbonated beverages diet. Would it be weird to ask for a plate of broccoli? I was determined; I was going to fart my way out of that place somehow.

Back to the hallway for a walk.

There were some new people shuffling the halls that morning. We veterans nodded to each other and I could tell we were all checking out each others urine bag. I must have made five trips down the hall and back before I heard the first grumble. “Yes!” I made a fist in triumph. Another couple of trips and there it was. I shuffled over to the nurse’s station as quickly as could. They must have seen it in my eyes, or maybe it was the big smile on my face.

“Congratulations,” one of them said. “Everything in working order?”

“I was just able to pass gas,” I said triumphantly. My whole world was off its axis. Never before in my life was I as proud of a fart.

“Let me see your bag,” the nurse said as she got up to come around the counter. “Are their any clots?”

Farts and clots? Suddenly things weren’t sounding so good.

She went down on her knee and examined my bag. “Color is good,” it was the first thing she noticed. “I don’t see any clots.” She looked up and smiled. It’s time to get ready to go home. I’ll call the doctor and start your discharge paperwork.

I felt like I had won a marathon. I was beaming and very proud. Some of the other patients shuffling the hallway seemed to understand and gave me the thumbs up. Usually there is an added dimension to a fart, the unpleasant part that can cause others to hold their nose. I was so elated I’d forgotten about that. I’d left it behind somewhere down the hall.

I went back to my room to get ready to leave. I called my wife to come get me. I still had the Christmas tree pole with fewer ornaments, and the three IV needles sticking out of my arms. I held my arms out and surveyed all the needles. Just then a nurse walked in and I said, “Can you take these out?”

“Not yet,” without any further explanation was all she said. She dumped my urine bag mentioning that the color was good. I didn’t care anymore. My urine could be green for all I cared. I was going home.

I got back in bed to wait. My wife was on the way, but nothing seemed to be happening on my end. I flipped on the TV and watched some game show. I don’t know what it was, it didn’t matter. I just wanted to see something happening. I wanted to go home.

Another nurse came in and shutoff my oxygen and detached all my bags from the Christmas tree pole. That’s what I wanted to see.

A Personal Care Assistant came in and packed my clothes and began to organize the room. My wife was bringing me fresh clothes from home. I was on easy street, until a nurse came and said, “Are you ready for me?”

“What now? I couldn’t imagine. My dignity and privacy had been stripped from me about as much as it could have been and I’d been poked and prodded pretty well up to that point.

“Ready for what?” I cautiously asked.

“We’re going to switch you over to a leg bag and show you how to take care of your catheter.”

“Do we have to?” I asked with some pain in my voice.

“Do you want to walk out of here carrying that thing like a purse?” she pointed to my urine bag. “We’ll put the leg bag on and no one will know you have a catheter.”

It made sense. Outside the hospital no one would care how good my urine looked. Some people might even be repelled if I tried to show it off.

“How does it work?” I asked now interested in regaining some privacy in my life.

“We strap it on here,” she said pointing to my leg. “It has buttons just like a garter belt. Oh, you probably don’t know what a garter belt is.”

“I most certainly do,” I was quick to respond. “I love garter belts!”

She had bent down by my leg with the new catheter bag in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on mine.

“Do you know how to button and unbutton a garter belt?” she asked in a more serious tone.

I was beginning to think that possibly she had misinterpreted my enthusiasm over the garter belt. But in what way?

“I do,” was all I said, “but I may be a bit rusty.”

I was standing beside my bed looking out the door to the room when she threw aside my gown. My hospital mates were shuffling back and forth outside in the hallway. Fortunately the nurse was blocking a direct view, but I was hallway-wise enough to know that through the grapevine word was quickly being passed that there was full fontal nudity on display in room 762.

I was suddenly in a hurry. The nurse was going slowing speaking out loud with step by step instructions as to how to attach and wear the leg bag.

“I’ll just carry the purse bag,” I said trying to move away so as to get it over.

“Don’t be silly,” she said the leg bag is better for travel.

I could hear the shuffling chorus of slippered feet closing in on my room.

She hooked the leg bag to my thigh and began transferring the tube.

“Now you want to be careful attaching this,” she said moving about as slow as a slug.

“I’ll be fine,” I said trying to pull my gown across the front of me only to wrap it around her head. Now she was under the gown.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped pushing the gown aside.

“What happens if I make a mistake attaching that,” I said pointing to the tube on which she seemed to have devoted her full attention.

“You’ll pee down your leg,” she snapped without looking up.

Did she possibly think I’d never had one too many in a bar before?

“There you go,” she said triumphantly as she stood up, “hands free.”

We had made it. The crowd of shufflers turned back disappointed.

That first warm sensation on my leg felt familiar, but because of all the advances in medicine, my sock remained dry.

The nurse then took out all the IV needles and shortly after that my wife and daughter arrived to take me home. The hospital staff insisted in wheeling me out in a wheelchair, which was probably a good idea as my garter belt was too tight and I was walking with a limp. I high-fived a couple of the guys on the way down the hall and for the final time remarked on what good color they had. When we reached the ground floor and the elevator doors opened I felt the rush of fresh air and freedom. It was great to be alive, but that dam garter belt leg strap killed me all the way home. Thank God for pantyhose.