Lifestyle – Snail Trek Blog

Toilet Training

The 17-foot long camping trailer we tow behind us should hardly be called a “mobile home.” It’s more of a miniature “mobile room,” with part of it sectioned off, creating the world’s smallest bathroom on wheels. Ironically, there is no “bath” in the bathroom. There is a shower, a hand-held portable wand connected to a length of plastic hose. This miniature room is a toilet hovel, a place to do your business, then pray you can quickly unlock the door to escape.

Heaven help the unsuspecting first-time shower victim, unfamiliar with the concept of sitting, backside exposed of course, atop a toilet seat that is still in the down position, reminding you that you’re there to shower—and nothing else at the moment. First, without a modicum of propriety, you remove every stitch of clothing because, well, you’re going to shower, of course. Now, where do you put the dirty clothing, and where do you put the newly unpacked and clean clothing? One choice is to strip naked just outside the teeny bathroom, a good choice for maneuverability, but not so great if curious visitors drop by, peeking inside just after you drop your skivvies. (“Oh, I just love how cute this little trailer is!” they will coo.) Another option is to cram yourself into the microscopic toilet/shower with your contortionist handbook outlining the moves required to disrobe, toss your clothes out the door, and then pretzel yourself into painful showering positions. Reverse this time-consuming and torturous process to dress in your clean, humidity-soaked clothes. Oh, wait! Just where are my clean clothes!?

Our trailer is so small that it disappears behind any motor home parked near it. “Weren’t we on this row?” I’ll ask my wife after our evening walk. “Was it Honeydew Lane, or was it Gumball Alley?” We always eventually find our fiberglass aquarium-sized rolling cabin. “Oh, that’s right! We must be next to that bus christened Goliath.” It drips gaudy Christmas lights, declaring, “We’re roughing it cooler than you are!” And there is the dog, displayed like window dressing—those omnipresent chihuahua mixes eternally guarding the dashboard of a Class A motor home, a rabid omnivore ready to tear the arm off any unsuspecting camper wandering inadvisedly across the white chalk line demarkation between hallowed camping turf, those microscopic chihuahua teeth engineered to bisect a slice of limp salami.

Our previous tiny 16-foot camper had two dining tables, one at each end. They could each be converted into beds. One side was a slightly tight fit for two, but sleeping head to toe in sleeping bags was a doable adaptation. With these arrangements, we could take another couple camping with us. Another couple, that is, whom we might know quite well and was not shy about propriety. The true test of friendship was a fold-up porta-potty, shared among the four. At night, especially considering an extended nighttime jaunt to the camp bathroom, and given sufficient space between campsites, I would place the porta-potty just outside the camper door, semi-concealed.

One night, nature called. I crawled silently out of my sleeping bag, a ghost fashionably attired in plaid sleeping pants. I carefully pulled the camper door shut behind me, gently turning the handle to prevent it from clicking like a midnight gunshot. I tiptoed to the porta-pottie, lifted the lid and paused. What next? Delivering while standing would amplify the ensuing splash of a mountain waterfall, loud enough to wake my companions. Instead, I knelt down before the toilet as if doing homage from a church pew. Halfway through, I froze. Behind me, the unexpected popping of twigs and of swishing leaves announced a visitor. Were it a deer or even a coyote, I could have struck out with my free fist. It was something far worse. Unknown to me, our female camping companion had preceeded me out of the camper and was returning from the campground restroom. Now we both encountered one another, each earnestly attending to our own mission, one of us having graciously completed her bathroom duties while the other, ill-timed, still knelt, mid-stream.

It took her a moment to figure out what was going on, seeing me kneeling before a toilet with the lid up, plaid sleeping pants reflecting the moonlight. She gave out a sudden weird sound, a strange horrified half-giggle, half-choke, the kind of sound Minnie Mouse might make, trying to cough up throat phlegm. My back was to her, so over my shoulder, I cheerfully blurted, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I looked like a giant, half-full teapot emptying its contents, my free hand fashionably placed upon my hip, elbow splayed outward, my arm forming a large teapot handle.

We both froze. The only sound was a stream, then a rivulet, then a slow trickle from within the plastic porta-pottie. Panicked, I dissected the entire Websters Dictionary in my head, searching for the right words to say, but came up empty.

Have you ever, at the end of the day, discovered your zipper down? And then you realize it has been that way since before lunchtime, the last time you used the bathroom? How many hours, and people, have passed by since then? And then you re-create various sitting postures and walking positions you’ve performed throughout the day to see just how awful it might have been? It was worse than that.

I crawled into bed, burying my head into my sleeping bag. The next morning, at breakfast, my wife inquired, “How did you sleep last night?” She and the female traveling companion who stumbled across me during the night were already suffering sore ribs inflicted by mirth and hilarity. After they recovered, my wife disclosed, “I was awake, and I knew that both of you were out of the camper at the same time for the same purpose. I could hear you using the porta-potty, so I was just waiting for the meetup!”

The Weight of Measures

In September, my father turned 105. Measured by climactic world conflicts, he has lived through World War I, World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Persian Gulf War, the Invasion of Afghanistan, and the interventions in Syria and Iraq.

My father now has what I call Goldilocks Syndrome. That is, he measures the comfort of his bed in his assisted living facility—too hard, too soft, just right—and he regularly informs me. He also estimates the time and energy required for his next journey to the toilet. He measures the effect of his artwork. As an artist, he unwisely hoists himself from chair to walker to add a dabble of point to “improve” the appearance a decades-old painting, one of many of his painted companions displayed in his modest one-room apartment.

There are, of course, many ways to measure. A doctor may measure medical breakthroughs. An evangelist might count the number of souls saved. An artist could count the works sold over time. An entrepreneur might tally the balance sheet. A rancher would count the heads of cattle and the cost of feed.

Several times each day, we measure the food we eat, assessing and judging the flavors. Practiced chefs create delights to make our tongues tingle and jaws ache with pleasure. They have measured and mastered the effect of sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory, bringing flavor to the fore like an orchestra conductor, a bit more of this, now more of that, in sublime harmony.

Over the past several years, I have measured the width and depth of my family. My self-appointed task has been to preserve our family’s photo history. Dusty, creaky albums, long-sealed boxes of photographic prints and slides all find their way onto the bed of my digital scanner. I am creating a digital melting pot, joining the lives of dozens of disparate relatives into some sort of meaningful pattern of relationships, organizing a life by life, year over year brew of wild flavors.

All lives contain a genetic, geographical and circumstantial whirl. It’s impossible to measure who and what has brought which flavor to the mix. We are in the middle of it all, adults emerging from childhood, then leaning forward into the older characters we become. In our own family’s picture book, we can look bewildered, trying to measure who we are and who we will become.

By any measure, life can be untidy, messy, and difficult to understand. How, then, might we measure the progress of our own life journey?

There are the ever-favorite ways we measure ourselves and mark our progress: improve looks, lose weight, exercise more, the familiar makings of New Years resolutions.

If we dig a bit deeper, where it’s uncomfortable, we unearth some real dandies.

Help me out here. Does the measure of our self-sacrifice toward family members fall a bit short? Hmmm. Yes, guilty.

What about becoming more sincere and generous friends—how do we measure up? I again raise my own hand.

Oh, yes, and what about keeping that inner peace, joy, humility when promotion or recognition or other good stuff passes us by? No angst, please. But I LIKE to be promoted and recognized and have good stuff. Don’t you?

Am I the only one with those struggles?

Maybe our most important weight of measure is this: within a shape-shifting world, how well do we adopt, maintain, or adapt our own life-guiding values?

Virus Diaries: Sherlock

Each evening at precisely 9 PM, there begins a whirring of mechanized wheels finding their footing, brushes and rollers spinning, mechanical bumpers activating, and invisible light sources awakening. I can hear it from the lounge chair in our bedroom. The general ruckus provides comfort because I know that Sherlock is once again happy and doing his job.

Sherlock is now 1½ years old. I’m not sure how many robot vacuum years old that would be. Ten, like dog years? These days, I suppose Sherlock is, in fact, our dog, or at least a substitute. I leave others to frantically adopt Covid-era pets from dog pounds with depleted inventory. We already have our dear Sherlock.

Sherlock seeks out and thrives on errant societal grime. Hence, the moniker “Sherlock.” Sherlock’s diet consists of life’s refuse—dust and dirt—the discards of our housebound lives. Like his more famous namesake, he is entirely mission-driven. And he’s a bit quirky. Like a mischievous child, he squeals for help when pinned beneath a chair or couch, or is detained by an electric cord splayed carelessly in his path. That’s when my cellphone app alerts me to come to his aid, and I wrest him free once again.

I love Sherlock. If all is well, he doesn’t complain or fuss. When his job is completed, he returns home to his base, dust bin happily supplied and satisfied, awaiting his next repeat adventure, 23 hours hence.

Routine is comforting. Like Sherlock, we employ predictable schedules to survive life’s demands. And, like Sherlock, we have learned to master That One Thing or even Those Many Things with great skill. We can believe that robot vacuum cleaners, we are. Indeed, we become masters of the familiar—very good masters of the very familiar. And this obsession, to the exclusion of the Great Beyond the dust and dirt, can worsen with age. I should know; I’m older than I once was. But I also know, deep inside, that I am better than that.

Altogether now, repeat after me: “We are better than that.”

Virus Diaries: Social Distancing—It’s Simple Math

Once it was all the rage: “Six Degrees of Separation.” We discovered that we’re each just six relationships away from everyone else. I know you; that’s one relationship away. And you know other people. You know Sylvester, and he knows people. Bingo, two relationships away. He knows Edna, and she knows people. That’s number three. Our relationships multiply exponentially. So if you do that at six levels, or “degrees,” you could know everyone on the planet. Friends of friends, and so on. So there! All people are six, or fewer, social connections away from each other. Six degrees of separation.

It’s simple math.

But wait a minute. Nowadays, on my daily walk, I count to six not by relationships, but by distance. I don’t want to “reach out and touch somebody.” No way! I want people six feet—or more—away from me. Today, give me “Six Feet of Separation.” The coronavirus has me jumping, keeping a street-width away from other walkers. My glasses fog as I re-breathe my mask-recirculated air. Because who knows? That less-than-six-feet-away stroller may have been around another less-than-six-feet-away walker, who may have been around another long-distance violator! Hang the formerly vaunted “six degrees of separation” theory! Spare us from those relationships six deep. And wide. And far. Keep me away! I’m all about “six feet of separation.”

It’s simple math.

One day, Mr. Coronavirus will turn us loose, and we might recognize life as we once knew it. When our gloves come off—literally—we’ll likely return to forging new “six degree of separation” relationships, which are just out of reach at the moment. And, yes, perhaps we’ll talk without needing to shout across the street.

Until then, we can be grateful, summing up both what we now have, and what we will then have.

It’s simple math.

Virus Diaries: The Toilet

During these global virus days, we are captives within our abodes. I have never asked myself, “Given the plague, where would I prefer to hole up?” We have already answered this question. We are holed up where we are holed up.⠀⠀

I am fortunate, protecting myself in the 1,600 square foot home that I share with my wife. Now that my field of vision is suddenly reduced, all around me in this household are curiosities that, in a larger world, might go unnoticed.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Take our toilet—no, don’t take our toilet! Were our world larger, proportioned as it used to be, I would need to anticipate my toileting needs away from the house. At Lowes Hardware—ah, yes, down the corridor at the back, on the left. Three urinals and four stalls await me. Our grocery store has one modest toileting compartment per gender, semi-hidden near the back, as if preserving it for employees only, nonetheless it is adequate enough for the task, or tasks, at hand.⠀⠀

My homebound toileting needs are now conveniently served just down the hallway; I have no need for an outside substitute in this giant virus-infested world. I enter the chamber, and the 12-volt motion-activated light invites me to safely stand or sit, as my needs may require. Regardless, I am welcomed by a non-judgmental porcelain creation of exquisite industrial design, hanging, as if perched, mounted directly on the toilet wall, defying gravity, for no part of this appliance touches the polished tile floor beneath. It’s a thing of cleanable genius, a World’s Fair-worthy sculpted beauty that I admire several times each day. Enlarged to gigantic proportions, it would make a wondrous waterslide.

Its other toileting convenience places it above a modest “Ford-level” appliance: the dual-sized wall-mounted push buttons release either minor or high-volume torrents depending upon the demand. But make no mistake, my ceramic friend is no competition for a “Bugatti-level” bidet-enhanced instrument whose performance flushes away all contenders.

Airbags

There’s no good time to have a belt explode. The sudden unhinging of my tightly-hitched pants could initiate rapid decompression, hurtling leather, zippers and buckle components into my gut, and endangering innocent passersby.
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Similarly, no excuse exists for the current automotive scandal—malfunctioning, exploding safety airbags. The near-universal Takata airbag safety recall is the latest water cooler topic. “Have you had yours done yet?” as if the subject were fingernail polish or hair colorizing.
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Today was my airbag replacement day. My red-inked “Urgent Safety Recall” notice noted threats of metal fragments injuring the car’s occupants, in exploding pants-belt style. Today’s service chore was aggravated by my previous encounter with this dealership, when I still grieved the loss of our beloved RAV4. When its transmission, transfer case and differentials simultaneously went to Glory, there was no choice.
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A perky, used 4Runner on the dealership lot had beckoned me. Soon enough, the sales vultures gathered, bedecked in logo-embroidered shirts. Their task was to avoid the subject of price and corral me into the dealership showroom, the inner sanctum—the Holy Place. The Showroom Bishop awaited me, white pressed dress shirt distinguishing him above the common sales priestly rabble, kindness and sympathy oozing.
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“How much for the car?” I inquired, forgetting that this question was the unpardonable sin. The Bishop started his slow “monthly payment” waltz: 48 months, 60 months, 72 months. He could work out my redemption.
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I would have none of it. The waltz devolved to a bitter note, me with extended index finger, performing the out-the-showroom-door shuffle. Incensed, the Bishop’s face reddened as he followed, to ensure I didn’t “key” any vehicles on my way out.
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Now, three of us stare at the TV in the dealership service waiting room, anticipating our rides home. We sip the complimentary coffee and price the tires displayed on the wall.
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And I’ll dodge the Showroom Bishop on the way out.

Watch Your World Fall Apart

Willie’s Joint, near downtown Buda, Texas, features a giant, oversized Jenga game. Players pull out the blocks that seem to be supporting nothing, one block at time, and put them at the top until the whole mess collapses. If you’re the one who causes the collapse, you lose.

Especially during holidays, life imitates Jenga. Hosting family and friends and juggling meal and schedules stack up. Extricating the time to add one more task puts us into Jenga-collapse territory.

We’ve changed our ways to some degree. We’ve pared down our Christmas gift-giving. Our miniaturized plastic Christmas tree sits atop a corner table. Whittle down, whittle down. We’ve gotten good at it, and not just at Christmas time. We don’t want Jenga-collapse. The few important blocks stay at the bottom.

Fewer blocks!

Streamline! Invite the neighbors over? No way!

Spend time watching that time-wasting event on TV? Heck, no!

Efficiency! NOW we’re getting rid of those non-essential blocks!

Finally! We’re down to eating, sleeping, and going to the toilet! We’ve got all that other annoying activity out of our lives! We’ve pared down to hardly any Jenga blocks at all! Victory!

We sit in the silent living room, staring at the interior-designer-approved grey walls. No neighbors to entertain. No jangling cell phones. No nothin’!

That’s when I start missing all the blocks we removed to get to this place. It dawns on me that Jenga did us in. All the activities and distractions that made our lives so much fun are now gone. All our time-wasting friends are gone. They’re precisely where we put them–at the top of the Jenga tower with all the other non-essential things, and out of reach.

Our Jenga base has been reduced to exactly one block wide.

With trepidation, I barely touch that one remaining Jenga base block so as not to destroy the fragile construction.

Then, with one violent motion, I yank it free.

The Parade Moves On

Radio studios used to house vast libraries of vinyl 33-1/3 RPM records, whose shallow, delicate grooves stored arrangements of voices and instruments in precious acoustic tracks. Archived melody and poetry of ambitious musicians lived in these studios, in records all lined up next to each other in vertical symmetry. These musical neighbors all waited patiently for their moment of release to radio’s air waves. These were the fruits—vinyl or even CD’s—of musical dreamweavers.

Not so much any more. Today, Nashville’s Acme Radio’s entire musical library of digital recordings might fill a portable drive not much larger than a ubiquitous cell phone. Technology seems to push both musical storage and musical performers in a quick-change-is-good lifestyle.

In today’s ephemeral digital world, the names and faces of celebrities struggle to briefly stay relevant. Soon the parade moves on to an ever-newer performer, whose fame may be destined to dissolve even faster.

Well-earned achievements may pass quickly in this flash-to-flame life. Deep within, some of us may long for that which lasts longer than a spectacular but fleeting solar eclipse.

The thing that stands out in contrast in this fleeting world is something that stands firm, maintains excellence, and speaks truth. A voice that cries in the wilderness might just set our hearts aright one more time.

Drone Wars

A New Years Day stroll on Laguna Beach, a setting sun, a much-relished camping escape turned into a drone buzz-match. A law enforcement officer suddenly chastened a newbie drone pilot filming his family doing surfside acrobatics.

“Take it down!” he was ordered. Public beach, I suppose, still off-limits to drones.

Which is what I had wanted to say during the whole episode. Take it down.

Fences make good neighbors. They define personal turf; leave my stuff alone.

Drones break the rules of fences. Shouldn’t my private space be protected from uninvited intrusion?

I know, I know. Jesus had no turf of his own, “no place to lay His head.” Foxes had dens and birds had nests, but not him.

And, presumably, not us any more.

Giving up personal space and privacy for a just cause is a noble thing. But I’m not so sure we should welcome it as a norm.

When will the next drone-weaponized photograph of me picking my nose appear on Facebook?

Or far worse.

Doing the Math

Albert Pujols will earn $250 million over the next ten years to play professional baseball for the Anaheim Angels; that’s $25 million a year under the terms of his new contract.

That’s all I know about Pujols. He gets paid very well to play with a small white ball. I rarely follow professional sports on television or in the newspaper. Admittedly, some human sports dramas, for example the Olympic Games, can be exciting. But huge paychecks make pro sports hard to enjoy; many of us simply can’t afford to attend many sport venues. Inflated ticket prices are required to help pay for the giant salaries being earned by the top players.

Of course, simply bellyaching over high professional sports salaries won’t solve the problem. In this sports-crazed society, lowering player salaries isn’t going to happen. So instead, let’s increase the salaries for the rest of us so they are commensurate with that of the sports elite.

Here’s how it works. Under this sports celebrity wage-matching approach, if we’re flipping burgers at a local hamburger joint, we’ll suddenly earn far more than our current minimum wage allows. Let’s suppose the owner gets paid an equivalent salary as the sports celebrity. Of course, we should expect the restauranteur to receive, say, 50 percent of that paycheck to pay for the restaurant’s operating costs plus his own salary. He’ll still have half of the $25 million sports celebrity salary–$12.5 million–to split among his 20 employees for their wages. That will give each of us burger flippers an annual salary of $625,000. I can live with that. Of course, the cost of a burger will rise accordingly.

But don’t worry. Remember, we’re all going to receive a sports celebrity-comparable wage increase.

Here’s another example. Let’s say we’re teachers. We’re easily instructing 150 students each day. To cover the school’s overhead—expenses like building repair, textbooks, utility bills and the like, 50 percent of our $25 million salary will be deducted. Fair enough because we still get to keep the other half—we’ll take home a $12.5 million salary. Teaching even the orneriest, manners-deprived kid is worth that kind of cash. My $25 million salary, divided by 150 students, will cost parents a mere $166,667 per child. No discounts available for multiple kids. (“Oh…will that be cash or check? Please, spell my name correctly.”) And, sorry, no credit cards accepted.

Think of this. Once all of our salaries are likewise upwardly-adjusted to meet sports celebrity salary standards, we’ll actually have enough money to purchase a ticket to watch Pujols play ball!

And, oh, let’s not forget to bring $250 for the sports celebrity-adjusted price of a Stadium Dog with relish!