Hidden Grunge

Worn sock reflected in mirror at motel in Salt Lake City.

   Holes in t-shirts. Torn socks. Grungy looking shorts.
   When embarking on a journey, I pack and wear beat up underwear. All of these clothes are clean.
   As the journey progresses, I trash the underclothes I've worn. Replacing them are additional oldies from the rag shelf back home.
   This approach saves me the hassle of washing laundry. It creates empty space in a day pack, my only article of luggage.
   I traveled to a conference near Salt Lake City. It lasted one week. My outer clothes were neat and pressed. My shoes shined. Nobody sensed the presence of my grunge wear.
   After four days, I exhausted my supply of old underwear shorts, a.k.a. rags. I treated myself to normal shorts.
   By the way, I hate identifying shorts as 'briefs.' Where did that name come from? While growing up, we boys called them shorts, fudge, or skivvies. 
   The less I own, the happier I am. This ethos of minimalism applies to travel. The less I carry, the more footloose I become.

Burned in Utah

   A man stood beside a road, holding a sign. Behind him stood the Wasatch Range of Utah. On this evening of the solstice, a glow of sunshine bathed the man and the mountains in a warm toned ambiance.
  He was soliciting money to purchase a bus ticket to New Mexico. He was a few dollars short.
  Yeah right. I've heard that line before. Skeptical, I pressed him for details.
   He told me he'd come to Utah for work. New on the job, his leg had gotten burned by chemicals.
   Crass as this sounds, I asked him to show me his injury. He lifted his pants.
   I gasped.
   His calf was horribly burned. A chemical had devoured the layers of his skin. The chemical had consumed much of his muscle.
   A bloody gauze had fallen to his ankles. The wound was exposed to the air and susceptible to infection.
   I urged him to visit a hospital. He said he'd done that in Salt Lake City. The doctors wanted to amputate the limb. Freaked out by their intentions, the man had left the hospital. He wanted to go home. There, he'd get a second opinion at a hospital that he was familiar with.
   He told me his wife was holding another sign down the street. Between the two of them, they hoped to obtain enough cash to board a bus.
   I gave him a dollar, wished him luck, and walked away.
   My conscience went haywire. Why was I walking away? The man needed more help than a dollar bill.
   A few things about the man's story didn't seem right. His sign described himself as homeless. Was that assertion truthful? How could someone who'd been employed lack a place to live? His sign mentioned a desire to get back to his children. Why would his wife be present in Utah if their children were back home in New Mexico? Perhaps there were no children. Perhaps there was no wife.
   Was the man lying to me?
   One thing was certain. A horrific wound festered on his leg. 
   I walked back and handed him cash for bus fares. Minutes later I brought him anti infection lotion. We went our separate ways.
   Why did I first walk away before lending a hand to that man?
   When people consider helping a stranger, a tug of war erupts in their minds. On one side of the rope is conscience; it urges them to render assistance. On the other side is rationalization; it considers the motives and truthfulness of the people seeking help.
   This tug of war requires time. Sometimes that means seconds. Often it means longer.
   What should happen when a dilemma about helping a stranger becomes too hard? Should conscience trump rationalization, or vice versa?

Marriage on the Rocks

   What predicts a happy marriage?
   A bride and groom arrived for their wedding reception in Massachusetts. Before they entered the hall, I pointed across the street. A boulder stood among a beach full of rocks. Behind the boulder lay the Atlantic Ocean. I broached the subject of posing them on the boulder.
   Bone chilling winds raced across the beach. No path led toward the boulder.
   The newlyweds consulted with each other. Within a matter of seconds they agreed to my request.
   The bride removed her shoes. She hobbled toward the boulder accompanied by her husband. Her ascent of the boulder required assistance.

 

   Once up top, they posed with aplomb.
   During the preparation that went into the wedding, nobody envisioned a rock climbing episode. Does the spontaneity of those newlyweds, and their willingness to undertake a risk, portend a happy future for them? I can't explain why, but I believe it does.

Dogged Persistence

 
   Failures are bogging down my pursuit of a dream.
   I've endeavored to become an author of young adult fiction. My first manuscript racked up a slew of rejections from literary agents and publishers. Undeterred, I submitted short stories to magazines. Those efforts led to more kicks in the literary butt.
   Inspiration comes in the strangest places. While driving in New Hampshire, I noticed a musher and his huskies. They were training without snow. A buggy substituted for a sled. No doubt about it, this man was paying his dues. Who knows, perhaps him and his dogs will someday win the Yukon Quest Dog Sled Race.
   For me, the beat--or beating--goes on. I'm penning a second manuscript. Next week I'm attending a writing workshop in Utah. Like that musher, I'm paying dues and honing a skill. My outlook is hopeful despite the possibility of more failures.
    While drafting this manuscript, a line of dialogue popped into my head.
   'A failure never fails.'

The Power of Circumspection

   When I worked for newspapers, covering house fires was part of the job.
   At one such fire, I noticed homeowners consoling themselves. I aimed my
telephoto lens at them. One of them noticed. She cringed.
   So did I.
   Even now, years later, I shudder at my insensitivity.
   That painful moment taught me the importance of circumspection. Sometimes it's better to let the camera hang on its strap. Sometimes its better to engage in conversations with people before raising a lens.
   Circumspection earns respect. Respect brings about cooperation. Cooperation provides access. Access means better photographs.

Resolute Determination

   I stopped walking, intrigued by a painting.
   It hung inside the hallway of a hospital in New Hampshire. What attracted me to the portrait was a resoluteness in the subject's expression.
   She is Marguerite d'Youville, a widow who founded a congregation of nuns in Montreal during 1737.
  When she undertook this endeavor, people ridiculed her. One reason for their contempt was the simple style of her nuns' habits. Another reason was her sheltering of the poor.
   d'Youville hung tough against this abuse. Her congregation grew and outlived her. Two centuries later a pope canonized her.
   Resolute determination leads to mockery, followed later by respect.

Dirty Money

This currency from Nicaragua was discovered in a box, many years after traveling to that country.

   Imagine dropping money into a toilet?
   Years ago I visited Nicaragua. I got sick with diarrhea. It happened while driving north of Managua. Desperate, I pulled over and ran across a field to an outhouse. There, I did my business.
   Ugh! No toilet paper.
   Not that I was surprised. Back then a civil war pitted Sandinistas against Contras. The economy was a shambles. Toiletries were scarce.
   What to do?
   I reached into my wallet, pulled out some cordobas notes--the currency of Nicaragua--and performed an essential function. Disgusting? Yes. But the alternative was worse.
   Next, down the hole went the cash.
   Back then, Nicaraguan currency had scant value. I'll venture to guess that I paid less than a dollar to solve an urgent problem, based on conversion rates.
   Last month while cleaning out a box, I came across two cordobas notes from that trip. Turns out, cordobas from that period in time are no longer in circulation. Now they're sought by collectors. The two notes I found are worth $85 U.S. dollars.
   How could I have envisioned, while sitting on a wooden throne in Nicaragua, that I was tossing into a hole money that could someday fetch several hundred dollars?