This past weekend I headed out the door with the full intention of riding my motorcycle 2,004 miles to Canada, but when I got to the front steps and noticed there was a nice breeze blowing across the porch and that I only had a buck-fifty in my pocket, I sat down on my blue porch chair and decided a cup of coffee would be just as nice.
The chair isn’t all that comfortable, but it’s easier to drink a mug of dark roast with a dollop of cream while you’re rocking on a porch than when you're doing 75 mph through Kansas.
So, I sat and drank awhile, poured myself another cup, then thought how nice it is to have a bathroom that always has toilet paper, a bar of soap, clean towels and no waiting line.
Out on the road, there’s no telling what kind of bathrooms you’ll encounter. Some are really nice, and some remind you of Dante’s Eighth Circle of Hell. And if you’re at a gas station and not a paying patron, the store people stare you down until your guilty conscience forces you to buy a bottle of water or a stick of gum, and I just can’t pee under that kind of pressure.
Also, I like being able to read a book in my own bathroom until my legs fall asleep without having to worry about someone pounding on the door trying to encourage me to take my “business” elsewhere.
I think I would have enjoyed seeing the trees in Canada, the Rocky Mountain Douglas firs and the Western Hemlock, but I’ve got trees of my own, trees that I’ve watched grow since they were wee saplings, and I always miss them when I'm away. I wouldn’t know the history of those Canadian trees -- wouldn't know when they were happy or sad; wouldn’t know if they needed a good talking to or a stiff drink of water.
Of course watching a Canadian show or a musical would have been fun, but I got squirrels running all over my trees that can perform as well as The Flying Cortez Family, and if that isn’t good enough, I don’t know what is.
Why, just the other day I saw a squirrel climb out to the end of a very thin limb, hang upside down clearly defying the laws of gravity, and nibble on the more succulent leaves as if he performed the show every weeknight and twice on Sunday. I tried to take a photograph of the little guy, but he ran off into the woods, screaming that the paparazzi should stop acting like vultures and get real jobs.
Driving cross country is a wonderful endeavor not to be missed, but don’t get me started about why anyone would pay $5 for a two-bit hotdog at a sleazy tourist attraction when a whole package of wieners cost less than $2! I could at this very minute walk into my kitchen and fix myself a three-course meal with all the trimmings, including a drink, desert, some after-dinner mints, a cup of coffee and a toothpick to play with, for probably less than a $5 hotdog, but don’t quote me on that – I could be wrong.
So, needless to say, I didn't make it to Canada. But I had a wonderful time sitting on the porch, drinking coffee, and making plans for my next week's adventure: to waterski across the Atlantic and do some Christmas shopping in Ireland.
Or maybe I'll just stay home and read a book.
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