Poetry

Toes Growing

That hour my birthdays point back to, whoever
saw me first
noticed
certain things weren’t right.

This isn’t the girl his mom asked for and
damn! would you look at
that foot.
I could not see ahead the

years of people staring down, then
glancing up to see if all of me
was off
or only that. And kids

at the pool calling it a funny fat foot, and
later on my young daughter
asking
if all daddies had one.

And a clever M.D. said I might have made
a living as someone’s field goal
kicker
if the chance for that weren’t

past. He knew what congenital meant,
but strangers saw it as
a fault,
a deformity meaning the

Lord must have been in a bad humor
whatever morning he
made me,
and wouldn’t change a thing years

later when a four-year-old, who’d seen
me bare-legged, prayed I’d grow
some toes.
Which thank you would be nice.

And then the boy who saw me and the foot naked in
the swimming pool shower and called out for
his mother
to come in and see it.

And there were surgeries then, and those strange
surgical shoes which were always
a curiosity
to kids I hung around with.

All grown up now and the foot old as me,
the shoes and their fittings still
aren’t grand
but I myself mostly am, thank you.


Afterword

The experiences mentioned in these lines are all memories of mine. They actually happened in my early life. For readers who do not know me, I am happy to report that this disability was nothing near devastating. An old high school friend once told me he thought I was determined to prove I could do anything anybody else did, despite “that foot of yours.” And indeed, I used this foot as a football player, a hiker, mountain climber, tennis player, golfer, bicycle rider, etc. As a Boy Scout I once hiked the 35 mile “Lincoln Trail” in Kentucky by myself in one long single day. Most groups take three days or maybe two. While the foot has had various surgeries, over ten of them, it has still managed to serve as best it could for now 89 years.


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Stories

The Life of Minnows

Dad and I about 1947

My dad loved fishing. I think it was like candy to him. However bad things got, there was calm to be had out there on a lake. When he said to me “let’s go fishing” I was ready already.

For some reason he never owned his own boat. Instead, he had his own outboard motor, always an Evinrude. Back then, in 1947, there were also Johnsons and Mercuries and Martins, but Dad ignored those. He carried his Evinrude in the car trunk to and from the boat docks. There he rented boats and attached his own Evinrude.

Most people who rented boat dock boats rented them with the motors. Dad sometimes got the side eye as he came carrying his own motor down the dock. He also brought his own gas can with gasoline already in it. The boat dock sold gasoline but higher priced than at the filling station.

Beside our rods and fishing tackle, there was the matter of bait. The boat docks all sold bait, but Dad never bought any. Instead, we brought our own minnow bucket with minnows already in it.

To get the minnows for the minnow bucket we took it with a minnow net to a nearby creek. Dad called it “seining,” a word I never understood or liked. To get it started, Dad would determine a likely spot for minnows. Then he would wade in the creek and stretch the net across it. The net was homemade. It had two poles made from tree limbs, one at each end, attached to the net in between. The bottom of the net was lined with lead fishing sinkers to hold it down on the bottom of the creek.

I was sent upstream some distance and told to slip around and not scare the minnows. When Dad was all set, he gave me a hand signal. I would wade in and begin scaring minnows down the stream.

I liked my job because after being told to slip and be quiet I got to splash and holler and tromp and beat the water with a stick. Sometimes I threw rocks. It was a raid, a raid for sure. No minnow in its right mind would stay put with me on the way. The only choice was to race down toward the net. Race and get caught.

When the net had enough minnows in it, Dad would lift the net, carry it up the bank, and drop the minnows in the minnow bucket filled with creek water. Some minnows usually fell out on the ground flopping around and I helped grab them and put them in the bucket where they belonged.

Of course, there were good minnow catches and there were disappointing ones. As if to prepare a 10-year-old for his life ahead. Often just moving upstream or downstream would work. Sometimes we had to get in the car and move to another creek.

Since you want your minnows alive and wiggling on the end of your fishing line, we always headed right to the boat dock.

Sometimes, if fishing was good, we would run out of minnows and have to go second rate with worms dug up from the garden and brought in a Maxwell House coffee can filled with dirt. If the fishing wasn’t good there could be minnows left over. These would be released in the lake because they couldn’t live in bucket water very long.

I liked to be the one to release the left-over minnows to their freedom. To do this, I liked to dip the whole bucket down in the water and then tip it so its water mixed with the lake water. The minnows usually recognized their opportunity right away and headed out into the lake.

I sometimes wondered what would happen to those minnows. I knew they might well be eaten by a hungry fish. But I also imagined they might find their way to a nearby creek where the fish couldn’t get them, a creek like they came from.

I decided the life of a creek minnow is pretty complicated.

You might get caught in your own creek and taken away for fish bait. You might get put on a hook and killed by a fish that grabbed you and tried to eat you. You might be lucky and get released into the lake alive and well. And you might escape the lake fish okay. But that creek you found and ran up to escape could still have enemies.

Diving kingfishers, grabbing raccoons, pouncing bullfrogs, snapping turtles, and twisting water snakes. 

Considering all that, I knew I was lucky to be a boy in a small Tennessee town and not a creek minnow.


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Stories Travel

Roadside Terror

“I believe the muffled blast of the .410 shotgun after Billy Reeder held his breath for what seemed forever and then with an utterly forsaken cry pulled the trigger and blew his big toe off so he wouldn’t be sent to Vietnam.”    From Rain on the River by Jim Dodge

Bygone years long past yes but now as easy as

well let’s say politician lying I could take you back

there actually right there on Pennsylvania Route 30

which is the one-and-only Lincoln Highway the

first U.S. road to cross our country—if it still

can be called ours—from coast east at New York City to

coast west at San Francisco and where I was was west of

Bedford Pennsylvania and a little past Schellsburg and

on beyond the buffalo yes amazing for Pennsylvania

buffalo farm we were there to see and no problems

driving no roadblocks arguments or flats until now so

sudden ahead ahead there was him or her hit down in

the road and smashed over on the shoulder harmed

awful and no not a person but a deer which in my

thoughts is almost as bad to see here or on any

road and I will never not anytime in my lifetime or

beyond if there is any forget the look oh lord the

terror on that poor animal’s face connecting right to

mine our faces do you see? face to face but as a

glimpse because of the car speed but mind what you

glimpse because this one has followed me through

life more miles than that Lincoln Highway adds up.

 


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Poetry Stories

A Dog Remembered

Man hired me to drive his school busses

Later gave me one of his new pups

Named him Amos

Took him to Tennessee near Oak Ridge when we moved there

He loved to hunt mice in the field nearby

Some mice did die, but only from being over-played with

Amos was free and loose and always ran happy

He was never a mean dog

A German Shepherd but no police dog in him

We moved to Kentucky and lived where there were farms all around

Amos was happy and did fine most of the time, except

One day neighbors told me he’d been chasing their cattle

Which you can’t have and be a neighbor around those parts

Everybody knew everything about everyone there

They said I had to tie the dog up to keep him from chasing cattle

They had serious farmer faces, those men

I couldn’t bear the thought of tying Amos up, not him

I was young and stubborn then

I was sullen and hurt and not exactly rational about it

The day was calm and sunny

Amos was ready for adventure as always

I drove him up the road and then down a certain lane

A lane where people dumped things they had to get rid of

A quiet, sad place with no one at all around

We walked into the woods a little way, him in front

Happy and carefree as always

Thinking those cattle had as much fun as he did

Him behind them running and barking

Me behind him with my pistol

My pistol down behind his head

Him shot and lying dead

Never knowing a thing about it

Me knowing all too much about it

Tears hot and running down my cheeks

Dropping on the silent leaves

I never wanted to go back there

But have a thousand times


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Commentary History Technology

Routine Amazement

I like oxymorons, and I recognize that my term “routine amazement” is one. I think the history below does illustrate how today’s wonder and amazement become tomorrow’s “so what?” acceptance.

As a person living in the U.S. starting in 1936, I have experienced amazement quite a number of times now. When I was born, there were already many things that had amazed earlier people, but as part of ordinary life they were not amazing to me. We already had:

  • Electricity (and various uses and appliances)
  • Radio (my favorite show was “The Lone Ranger”)
  • Repeating rifles (came into use in the Civil War and benefitted the Union army)
  • Motion pictures
  • Automobiles
  • Air travel (commercial flights just beginning)
  • Telephones (mostly local and “party lines”)
  • Cameras
  • Vaccines (smallpox, tetanus, rabies, typhoid)
  • Typewriters

Of course, the old people living when I was born had experienced each and all of these amazements previous to my arrival. There was no need for my amazement since I was privileged to simply accept them as routine and perhaps be happy as each was improved over time.

So, beginning with me (if I may put it that way), the newer (new for me, of course) amazements begin. These have included:

  • Nuclear power and the atomic bomb
  • Penicillin and antibiotics
  • Television
  • Landing on the moon
  • Personal computers
  • The Internet
  • Mobile phones
  • The smartphone (consisting of a mobile phone and hand-held personal computer)

This brings us to artificial intelligence (AI) which is my latest amazement.

I am a paid subscriber to Open AI’s “ChatGPT” and it is the best $20 per month subscription I have. I use it every day and sometimes for hours at a time. It faithfully keeps a record of these conversations, and I often refer back to them. I don’t use AI to write for me, although it/he/she/them does offer regularly to do that. I like my own writing style. But it would be quite possible to for a future writing AI to first read everything you have written in sequence and then replicate your writing style for future use. As it is now, I can almost always detect when I am reading something by an AI author.

My latest AI amazement is in the realm of images and art. Open AI used to use a program called DALL-E for image creation. It was okay most times but frustrating at others. Just recently this program was replaced, and the replacement is . . . you know, amazing. I’d like to illustrate.

At the YMCA pool this morning I noticed a small drawing by a swim team member on one of their whiteboards that usually holds workout schedules. It was an imaginary little seascape with a bunch of plants and animals. A friend and I were discussing it and I got an idea. I made its picture, brought it home, and showed it to AI. First, let me show you the swim team drawing itself, then the results of my AI discussion.

The person who made this drawing had imagined an ocean filled with plants and animals. I showed the drawing to AI and asked for a color picture with “real” creatures like these. After a number of iterations, we arrived at the following. This might have taken 10-15 minutes. Do note the photographic quality of these images. Amazing.

Next we discussed a version with the animals appearing as cartoon characters.

And finally, I asked for another version in a less photographic and more impressionistic mode. We finalized the third and last version of the drawing in less than a half hour total time. Just amazing.

While I am still amazed at this trio of images, I’m using them as screen savers on the monitors of my study computer. Where I am writing this, ha!

I have a good friend who writes competitive proposals for large government contracts. He tells me that AI has revolutionized his work and greatly shortened the time each project requires.

I do recognize that artificial intelligence can and will be used for bad as well as good. This has also been the case for nuclear power, television, smartphones, the Internet, and all those other previous amazements.

Let’s hope for the best. And work toward it too.


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Stories

Request For a Woman

I was watching as the waiter came with
menus to the nearby table.

Tall and slender and dark he was, a
little shy I thought. And foreign. Polite
too, you could tell. The kind someone
might take advantage of, or not say
the right thing to.

The man there at his table looks
him over and says:

I like for pretty women to wait on me.

I swear those were his exact words and
right out loud in that restaurant and
his wife right there with him.

So, I observed this man because I
sometimes look at pretty women too, but
never requested one from a waiter before.

His frowning face was not the
kind to charm a pretty woman. It
showed his many complaints
about the bad turns his life had
taken. The wife who often hears about
those things sat still and starring.

But the man likes pretty women and
has now requested one.

I figured he drives a big American-made
car with custom plates and many
bumper stickers and has never voted
Democrat in his life. Scorns those
imported cars and imported people too.
Throws trash out the window if he wants
and says a lot about the deadbeats on
welfare, yeah. Plays golf Friday
mornings and cheats when he can.

And hasn’t kissed his wife a real
kiss in many years now.

So anyway, there stands this
waiter with his puzzled face and
menus, beginning to realize how
hard a question he’s just been handed.
What on earth can he suggest?

Sir, I don’t know how to answer your
question but I could bring the manager
over and see if he can help.

Or

Sir, I believe the prettiest woman here
is working in another section but
should I see if I can call her over?

Or

Sir, we have no pretty ones
here, but there’s a place in town
where they dance topless for
a nice tip. Want the address?

But I don’t believe the waiter knew
what to say and so he never said
anything on this difficult subject.

He must have thought more
about it though, and how he
might have answered. And he
must have wondered about this
man he’d served.

Some man. His wife spends up
most of his money and nags him
about the rest. His one daughter
never married all these years,
but’s lived with three strange
men in some order, and spends her
time often drunk with a bunch of
misfits and rejects. Son divorced
and never calls except when he
wants help. And a woman who
refuses to speak in a civil way if
she speaks at all has custody of
his only grandchildren. That’s
the way his life’s gone.

Then of course there’s his leaky
bladder, his sore back, his bad
knees, his high blood pressure, and
all those pills and doctor appointments.

World’s crazy these days. Too
crazy for even the prettiest waitress
to help all that much. But still he
thinks about it. His imagination
wanders hopeful.

Look up in some wide blue eyes
and hear old-time music being
played. Band music that is. Nice
young girl with a tan and a pretty
sun dress on. Drive by to pick her up
and head downtown for a soda. Red
convertible with white sidewall tires,
yessir! Something about showing off
a sharp car and a pretty girl all together.
Fellows there in front of the drug store
all turn and stare. Some wave.

Ahh, yes!

But instead, he must take that boring
old woman across his table to a damn
birthday party with people he doesn’t
like. He’ll have to still stand there and
sing happy birthday. Happy for who?
Not for him. No pretty women
will he see there either.

His waiter, who is young, knows nothing
of all this.

His chances with pretty women are at their
lifelong best.

Why, he may sit with his arm around one  just
hours from now and tell about the dirty old man
he waited on today. They may joke about what
that man would do if he really got the pretty
woman he asked for. Old age is when
you get stiff in all the wrong places, right?

And stretched out at home with his third
beer and favorite team playing lousy on TV, his
day’s most notable customer sighs heavy as he
thinks along the same lines. They do have pretty
girls in all those commercials, but what good is
that to me? What good?

And there, all settled with his own girl, the
young man stretches his arms over a full
head of hair and smiles his wide smile
as if this, for him, will go on and on forever.

And I, whose own years fall somewhere between
those two, will finish my breakfast and leave
alone, feeling a little sad for so early in the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Stories Travel

The Mistake of the Puffin Killer

 

he lived on a hill that looked two ways with one looking down below on the black sand beach and the other up the side of a steep high cliff on this icelandic coast so famous and where tourist droves flock to stare and wonder and take their selfies and eat their snacks and some even wading

out there in that roaring north atlantic surf which first thing he warned us about since two of those idiots were swept in and disappeared by sneaker waves they call them just last monday he said sternly eyes leveled as a man used to newcomers like us arriving to rent his small airbnb cabin right down the road there he pointed

and when you get down there look up above you on that cliff and see my rope still hanging down that i used to climb up with my long spear to stab puffins and bag them for dinner fixed right there in this kitchen and so good they were and silly laws are against it now but by god i still could climb that rope up there if I wanted to and here’s the house key which should be all you need because our place is ready ready as always now take care and enjoy your stay

we drove down and parked in front looked out along the black sand at the waves that grabbed and swallowed those people looked up at the cliff and the old rope hanging down sort of proud looking then slipped the key in the lock and turned it it it what no back again no try again try try try and damn that sorry thing and okay you try it if you’re so smart but nothing either now what next call help

the call brings him fast out in his yard seeming almost mad and looking down toward us then walking fast his long arms swinging and head up straight and down the hill he came as if saying what the devil is wrong with these pathetic tourists who can’t even open a door but okay okay now do not say that to them or anything else no no don’t now the poor things just let them in and back you go up quick your big mouth shut

arriving on the scene his hand impatient held out ahead of him to grab that unsuccessful key he wordless took it slammed it in the lock and turned it it it what no back again no try again try try try and damn that sorry thing he swore

and puffins gathered up there over us on the cliff might have laughed seeing him him especially him helpless huffing at that lock his own lock and saying damn that sorry thing that lock which finally somehow did have a mercy he never showed those puffins and let us in

i guess i may need to replace that lock he mumbled muttered eyes lowered down and his head too before back up the hill he went and

i imagined this I did I imagined i could hear those puffins up there above us

ha ha they said ha ha

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Poetry

Four Short Poems

The Mechanic

He has hair thick and
a waist thin and females
say uhh uhh when they

watch him come or go
either one and he minds
business about that every

night he feels like it so
no problem there but
here on the job today he

has grease and a dark
frown on his handsome
face as a dropped wrench

bangs his dodging foot
and damn he hollers cars
I don’t know like women.


say what?

thought i said clearly you
have a grey corduroy suit
in 38 long?
she said what color?
and i said grey and
she said 38 regular?
and i said no long
but none of it mattered because
she then said they
had no such suit


Closure

There are things that
having once known

you are changed
by enough so the

mind may say let
go but the heart

insists not so and
the war waged will

be settled one fair
day when the mind

is least suspecting.


If Only

If only it was left
for sun above to shine down
well and make to grow

again what grew so
fast one magic spell, there
might have been a

season right for this,
that grew so carefree once,
till midnight blackly

overhead a cloud of
troubles rose unseen to curse
a land so lately green,

where animals now
sigh for grief, the rabbits
walking oddly lame,

fishes still in their
water like shapes of rock,
the eyes of deer

fastened to their
hoof prints. And a flower,
a flower no wisdom

understood, died rare
and quiet in a smothered wood,
wasted for love.

And yonder where
a tree of promise brightly
grew, a twisted

bush was left to
own a ground it never knew.
Living, but sadly.


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Religion Stories

Neal Squitieri

His name was Neal Squitieri. I met him and talked with him on and off for 16 years. I liked him, and I know he liked me too. It would be accurate to say that we were friends. We were unlikely friends, however, because our roles in life at the time were a great distance apart.

I was pastor of a church in the Washington D.C. area where Neal mainly lived. He was a “homeless man” or “unhoused man” or “displaced person” or “street-involved individual” or whatever term is now politically correct. Privately I sometimes referred to Neal as “my favorite bum.”

I dealt with quite a few bums in those days. Our church had a room for donated clothing, and one for donated food, and a budget for cash assistance to the needy that I was in charge of. Neal came to me over time for assistance with each of these needs, but he began to linger for conversation. This contrasted with most other assistance-seekers who would get what they came for and then were out the door.

I remember one man who was hungry and wanted food. I took him upstairs, and what he selected was a large can of peaches with a pull top. He followed me to the elevator and when we arrived on the main floor and I turned to speak with him, I found that unknown to me he had opened the peaches and eaten the entire can on the way down. Including the syrup. I showed him to a waste basket to throw away the can. This man was a regular and I could tell other stories about him, but I will always remember the experience with the peaches.

Every of these occasions tended to be different. I remember a younger man who was likely drunk or high on something and who demanded a large quantity of money. When I refused, he promised to return and burn down my church. I had experienced people being mad at me on enough occasions, but not the threat of church burning. After I finally got him out the door, we advised the police and provided a description. But nothing ever came of it.

Neal Squitieri was a different case. He liked to sit with me in my study and talk. We talked of many things, some casual and some otherwise. Philosophy was of particular interest to Neal. Philosophy and some theology and some history and some politics and current affairs. Neal was intelligent, despite his unkept appearance. I looked forward to our conversations and I know he did too.

Neal was a Vietnam War veteran, honorably discharged. I know this because after some years he one day handed me his discharge papers and asked me to keep them safe for him. I was honored to do so.

There were many Vietnam veterans who, like Neal, became homeless in their own land after their return home. Many struggled to return to a normal life after the war. Issues such as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), substance abuse, and societal rejection complicated their reintegration. It is estimated that 15-30% of Vietnam veterans experienced PTSD at some point, with many of them never fully recovering. By the mid-1990s, it is estimated that one in four homeless men in America was a Vietnam veteran.

We now know that societal rejection was a great blow for many. The country was tired of the war and angry about the political deceptions that had stretched it out for so long. Losing the war was an added humiliation. People wanted to forget about it and move on. There were remembered images of soldiers as baby killers and looters and village burners. Although most of the soldiers were there by force of the draft and not by choice, they got the blame.

One cold winter day I got a phone call at the church. It was Neal. It was the first time he had ever called me on the phone. He was in jail and needed help. It turned out that he had entered the basement furnace room of a nearby Presbyterian church to sleep and keep warm. The police had arrested him for trespassing. The pastor of that church was a good friend, and I called him and accused him of involvement in this disgrace.

“Jesus tells us to care for the hungry and the homeless, and you have them arrested,” I complained (not an exact quote, okay, but something like it). It turned out that he was unaware of the arrest, had helped Neal in the past, and wanted us to work together to fix this.

So together we drove to the county jail, identified ourselves with our ministerial faces on, and demanded Neal’s immediate release. The stern-faced lady in charge was used to such demands, and immediately told us no. It was something like a f—k off. I remember the Presbyterian pastor argueing that this was his church building, and they would not press charges, and he wanted them dropped. The lady replied that it was the police who had charged the man, not the church, and the case must run its course. Despite our protests and best efforts, it took three weeks for Neal to be freed.

Neal was the type of homeless person who liked to be alone and on his own, as opposed to spending time in a homeless shelter with groups of people. There were numerous shelters in the area that served meals and provided a place to sleep. Some were in church buildings, and I had done volunteer work with one of those. I had slept on the floor in my sleeping bag among those men. I had observed the comradery among them and the informal but effective group self-discipline among them. One of the men told me to just let him know if anyone got out of line and he would take care of it. But Neal lived on his own and avoided groups like that, even when it could have made life easier.

On one of our trips to the jail, my pastor friend and I discussed what to do next. We decided to try to help Neal really get back on his feet. We would get him a place to live and the stuff he would need to keep house. And we would get him a job that would start him toward self-sufficiency. We would pay his deposit and rent for some time until he was able to pay for himself. We had it all worked out, Neal’s future and better life.

We presented our plan to Neal. He listened and nodded his head and seemed to appreciate our efforts. We were eager for him to agree, and we thought he did. We proceeded to find and rent an apartment, buy stuff to furnish it, take him there and get him settled, and get him a job. The job was working at a local landfill which could be reached by public transportation. We had everything in place for Neal to begin a new and normal life. Everything we could think of. It was an exciting time for us. We had done well, we thought.

But Neal never went to the job, and he disappeared from the apartment in a short time.

Thinking back on this, I am reminded of two great movie roles where the characters faced a similar effort by others to help them leave their old lives and begin a new and “better” one. That would be Francis McDormand in “Nomadland” and Jack Nicholson in “Ironweed.” Both finally chose to reject the offered life upgrades and return to their old and accustomed ways. Just as Neal did.

It was a long time, perhaps a year, before Neal came back to the church. When he did, he said nothing about our past efforts, nor did I. I gave him whatever he asked for and we sat and talked as before.

When I finally resigned and left the church, Neal was nowhere around. I carefully gave the church office his military discharge papers with instructions to give them back whenever he appeared again.



 

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Stories

A Travel Curiosity

Being now some years old, and having loved to travel all my life, and having stopped to use the rest rooms more times than I could guess, I saw something I had never seen before on any rest room wall. This sign.

We were driving from the New York Finger Lakes down to home in Pennsylvania, and this was in a highway rest stop. It was straight ahead of you as you entered the men’s room. The place was a state welcome stop. I wish it has been New York, but I think it was actually Pennsylvania. It was clearly not a state sponsored sign and clearly belonged to this particular place.

PLEASE DO NOT BARGE INTO STALLS

Several questions arose immediately in my loose mind. Who created and put up this sign? What barging incident(s) had prompted it? How effective had this sign been in preventing other barge-in happenings? Had the incidents been accidental or intentional? Were there other posted instructions on the inside of this rest room, I wondered as I entered?

There were, indeed, other posted notices. “Remember to take your cellphone when you leave.” “Don’t forget your car keys.” “Be sure you have your billfold.”

Obviously, the resident sign creator had wished to be helpful to all the rest stop patrons. I wondered if this was the station manager, or one of the attendants? Or was it left there as a joke by someone passing through and unaffiliated with the management? It crossed my mind that I myself might have done this at some early point in my life.

There were other potential rest room signs I thought about as my mind wandered further.

PLEASE AIM CAREFULLY WHEN USING THE URINALS

REMIND OTHERS TO WASH THEIR HANDS

AVOID BUMPING THOSE USING THE URINALS

NO DRYING HANDS ON OTHER PEOPLE’S CLOTHES

EYES FORWARD WHEN USING THE URINALS

PLEASE FLUSH UNTIL TOILET BOWL IS CLEAR

DO NOT URINATE IN WASH BASINS PLEASE

But after these diversions, I was still most curious about the stall-barging sign. I was especially curious as to why the burden of prevention was put on the barger and not the bargee. In other words, why not have a sign inside the stalls reminding the occupant to latch the damn door. Something like this.

PLEASE LATCH THE DOOR TO PREVENT SOMEONE BARGING IN

So now, please consider, if a stall is occupied, and the latch unlatched, and thinking it is empty and available someone barges in, who then is at fault? Who then is the victim here? Who then should have a sign advising them on the proper course of action? I rest my rest room case.

Is any of this nonsense very important?

No, it is not.

But when you travel long hours and see something curious, the mind will wander some.



 

You can email Ed Briggs HERE

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