Right here

Yeah, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted here. Honestly, I’ve mostly been trying to figure out WordPress and get my domaine name figured out. Actually, that was just today, really. No excuse.

But the Orlando murders shocked and horrified me and I guess I’m working through that in this space.

I was at a beautiful wedding this weekend. We heard the news of the shooting on the drive there. We didn’t know many details then- my husband and I wondered what the motivation was, and to our terror, we realized at this point, in this country, it could’ve been anything- a disgruntled employee, a jilted lover, who knows.

As we sat in the ballroom, watching the wedding ceremony unfold, I couldn’t keep out of my mind the thought of what I would do should a gunman suddenly appear. Where would I go? Would I hide? Would I be able to bring people with me? Would I even know what was going on before it was too late? Some of these are not new questions for me. Anyone who has escaped from a fire thinks many of those same things anytime they’re in a new place. We look for alternate exits; we plan our emergency egress. But I caught a few others lookng around the ballroom, with glances falling longer than usual on the doors to the outside, and I realized others were wondering the same things now too.

And as we learned more about the shootings, I thought about what it was like for those family and friends sending frantic texts, calling, their hearts sinking and pulses racing as their messages went unanswered. I thought about such violence and terror taking place in a setting of joy and freedom. And what those places mean to people who have very real fears of being themselves anywhere else. I thought about a dear friend of mine at a New Year’s Eve party several years ago, up in the private room of a bar downtown, a little scared and yet wondrous over the fact that for the first time ever, she was kissing her girlfriend at midnight in public. How happy I felt for her, and how sad it made me that she hadn’t felt safe doing so before. How privileged I’ve been never to feel that fear.

Oh, my LGBTQ friends, I am so sorry. So sorry that again, someone has enacted violence upon you. So sorry that one of your safe spaces has been violated. So sorry that you’ve once again been the target of irrational hatred. So sorry that even your right to grieve how you wish is not being completely respected and your pain being co-opted. But please know this:

You are so, so loved. You are so, so respected. We, your allies, are both so saddened and hurt for you, but also floored with awe. Once again, you’ve been knocked down and fought your way to your feet. Once more, you’ve summoned unimaginable resolve and been determined to not only fight for your rights and against intolerance and injustice, but have also guarded against letting the fight change you. Your calls for love, for softness, in light of these vicious transgressions, bring tears to my eyes and I find my resolve to be a better human motivated by your example.

Know that we’re right here. Over here. Giving you space and time to grieve. Knowing this was your hurt, but hurting for you just the same. And that while it’s your fight, we’re right here with you. We have your back. Tell us what you need. A hug, a cookie, space, our voices raised in union with yours. Our fists, if need be. Tell us what to do. Tell us what you need. Keep teaching us.



I had a dream… but in MY dream…

I’ve been having unusual dreams lately. I don’t know why or what might be causing them- it happens from time to time. They’re rarely nightmares or scary things, thankfully, and usually do not make any kind of sense, so I don’t try to interpret them. I just accept them as my weird little brain finding an outlet while the rest of me is shut down in rest mode.

6a00d83451614969e200e54f5d8a5d8833-350wiMy favorite one recently was the morning I woke up laughing and had to tell Brett that I’d dreamed about something called FASHION LEEK. Fashion Leek is a garden-variety leek who works as a style reporter covering New York Fashion Week. She’d be dressed up in the most ridiculous of the latest trends and run around the city in impractical high heels while trying to get interviews with the fashion cognoscenti, in spite of the fact that she wasn’t invited to a single show. Somehow, through sheer determination and grit (!) she’d manage to snag an interview with Anna Wintour, who would spend the whole time dabbing at her burning, watering eyes with a handkerchief, yet still graciously answering questions, impressed by Leek’s chutzpah.  In spite of Leek’s odor, Anna would still 41F03q-HmDL._SX342_prefer Fashion Leek to Kanye and Kim.

And then this morning, I dreamed I was at work, facing an impossibly long list of tasks and our office manager came to me and said, “Well, it’s finally official so I have permission to finally tell you the big news.” And she drew it out like a cat playing with a dead chipmunk while I’m sitting there fuming about all the stuff I have to get done that I’m not getting done while she teases me with this big news. Before long, other office staff have gathered behind her, all grinning wildly and practically jumping up and down with excitement.

The news? The not-for-profit retirement community where I work was bought by Marriott, who would be adding rooms to include a youth hostel and a kitten shelter, in addition to our senior apartments and assisted living. In the dream, as my coworkers cheered and laughed and hugged each other, I stood there with my jaw dropped, my mind spinning over all the repercussions of going from not-for-profit to excited faces for-profit status and how the hell were we going to accommodate all those kittens? (The kids from the youth hostel apparently did not worry me.)

I finally asked my coworkers, “How on earth can you think this is a good thing?” To which they all replied, “We get cookies now!” holding up wax paper sleeves with the Marriott logo printed on the front, a large chocolate chip cookie peeking out from the folds. As I try to formulate an answer to this, I see a guy just past them at the entrance, ushering kittens out of an eno5dc00b4ffc67ea56d202f2251eaf1e3armous truck in through the front door, where they just take off and scatter wildly throughout the building. Hundreds of kittens, just crawling the halls. And then I woke up.

I’m a little nervous to go back to work Monday.

Women Swimmin’

On Saturday, I woke up at the crack of dawn, joined my teammates, the Misfit Otters, and swam 1.2 miles around Cayuga  Lake to raise money for Hospicare and Palliative Care Services. It’s an event called Women Swimmin’ and this was my third year participating. I’ve posted about it before, including my reasons for doing the swim, so here’s some photos of the day’s events.


My teammate Liz Hudson & I wonder why the hell we’re awake at this hour


I’ve just spotted my family- including my cousin Lisa playing her harmonica necklace


Ivy & Lindsay- sister teammates (Ivy brought the waterproof camera and took our open water photos)


Misfit Otters! (except I’m sort of blocking Christen)


On the dock, ready to jump in


Watch out for the giant dorito!




With our mascot

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Do you want to see what I’ve been up to?

putabirdonitWell, the title of this post counts for two things.

One, what I’ve been up to, in addition to my swim for Hospicare, is moving my blog to a new site. Blogger was just driving me crazy, putting pictures where I didn’t want them to be and not letting me align stuff the way I wanted. Frustrating. So I finally moved the whole business over to WordPress, where you are now. We’ll see how it goes.


Not quite like this, but close.

Secondly, “do you want to see what I’ve been up to?” is what I was asked by a strange lady who sat down next to me on the bench where I was waiting for the bus home after yoga this evening. She came over and set down a flat of peaches she was carrying, so I moved over to offer her room. It must get tiring carrying an entire flat of peaches around. But then she sat down and asked me, “Do you want to see what I’ve been up to?”

I had no idea who this woman was, never met her before in my life. And considering that the last time someone asked me something like that downtown, it involved her pulling a live hamster out of her bra, I was a little hesitant. Turns out, I didn’t need to answer. She just pulled a little felted change purse and felted bird ornament out of her tote bag and proceeded to tell me how she had bought the felted bird house originally, but that “didn’t really work out” so she exchanged the felted bird house for a felted bird ornament and a felted change purse. With a bird on it. After a quick check to make sure I was not tumblr_lfskq8PIzg1qe3o6ho1_500inadvertently in a Portlandia sketch, I told her they were very nice and a good purchase. 

Then she sees my yoga mat & asks where I go. I said Mighty Yoga on State Street. She said, “No, that’s not it.”

I said, gently, because she’s toting a box of fruit along with playing show and tell with complete strangers revealing a lack of inhibition that could possibly be concealing a touch of psychosis or at least instability, “Yes, that’s the name of it. It’s above Handwork, across from the State Theatre box office.”

“No, I’m sure that’s not it.”


Not too much of an exaggeration

Mercifully, the Route 11 pulled up at that very moment. “Oh, look, here’s my bus. Nice talking to you.”   

She was about to query further into my erroneously named yoga studio (“You just sit down and we’ll figure it out, no matter how long it takes,” I imagined her saying) so I did a quick but casual-looking speed walk, practically throwing myself into the sanctity of the bus.

Fortunately, everyone on the bus seemed to be intent on keeping to themselves, which was much appreciated and not often the case.

Why I Swim

On Saturday, I will wake up at the crack of dawn and participate in Women Swimmin, a 1.2 mile swim in Cayuga Lake raising money for Hospicare and Palliative Care Services.  This will be my third swim and I’m no less excited than I was the first time. I’m always bowled over by the people at Hospicare thanking us for swimming- it really should be the other way around. I’m so proud to get to be a part of this event. Beyond feeling like I’m doing my own small part to make the world a teensiest bit of a better place, it gave me back swimming. I’ve wanted for years to get back in the pool and swim regularly again. Training for this event motivated me to start a regular swim practice and I’m very grateful.

Three years ago, the day I signed up for my first swim, I posted about why I was swimming. As I get closer to the event, I’ve been thinking of my uncle and I thought I’d re-post his story here. I swim in honor of my Uncle Fred Barnes and my sister-in-law, Cathy Bossard. They both benefited so much from hospice care; they were individuals with a very strong connection to their homes and hospice allowed them to spend their final days in the places they loved most. I swim for them, and for everyone who benefits from the amazing work Hospice does.

To everyone who has donated in support of my swim, thank you, thank you, thank you. It has meant so much during those early cold mornings to know you were out there cheering me on. As I plunge into that chilly lake water Saturday morning, I’ll be thinking of you. And my Uncle Fred.

My uncle Fred & me

Three years ago, my brother was in town for his birthday and we decided to drive to Montour Falls and go to breakfast at one of my uncle’s favorite places, Chef’s. And then while we were in the area, we decided to set out on an adventure and find my uncle’s old camp, a place that played a huge part in our childhoods but we hadn’t visited since Fred passed away.

We did find it, through some half-assed directions (Dad- you need to know that a ‘great big hill’ means something entirely different to Ithaca people) and the miracle of Google maps on an iPhone.

It was so weird to be standing in a place you knew so well from childhood and that you hadn’t visited in seventeen years.

My brother Kevin & sister Katie in front of
what used to be Fred’s camp

My uncle Fred was my dad’s oldest brother. He was a confirmed bachelor, and oftentimes something of a crank. He wasn’t that crazy about small children, especially their germs, and would often decline hugs for that reason. As a painfully shy child, I was always relieved by this. Being made to hug people, even family, can be kind of unnerving if you’re shy and I was always grateful to uncle Fred for letting me off

my dad, Uncle Fred, Uncle Bob

the hook, whether he knew it or not.

Once you got older, and could help out on the boat or ride snowmobiles or had learned not to mess with his stuff and not to slam the screen door, you were okay by him. He loved his boat and waterskiing, and he loved few things more than being able to brag that he had taught his nieces and nephews to ski, rarely needing more than two or three tries to get right up.

He also taught my dad how to waterski. This may not sound like such a big deal, but my dad lost his left leg above the knee in Vietnam serving with SEAL Team One. My dad learned how to waterski on one leg, years after he’d returned home and learned how to walk with a prosthesis. I remember being on the raft out on the lake watching as Fred called out instructions to my dad in the water, looking all roly-poly in his life vest, the tip of his one ski sticking out above the water like a little shark fin. I watched as Fred gunned the boat and raised my dad out of the water only to have him wobble and fall back in with a huge splash. I watched him do it over and over again. And over again. I heard my mom talking to my aunts about how she was worried Dad was getting tired or might get hurt.

me & my dad at the lake

I watched him try again and again. My dad wouldn’t give up and Fred wouldn’t give up on him. And then finally, he was up. And stayed up. And there he was, flying by us, on one leg, one ski cutting crisply through the water. I don’t remember how old I was when this happened, but I remember being so proud of my dad that my eyes filled with tears and the tears spilled out on my cheeks as the boat’s wake rocked the raft.

Fred lost an eye to cancer when he was a young man. They found a tumor on his optical nerve. If it had happened a few decades later, they most likely would’ve been able to remove the tumor and save the eye. (The neurologist and author Oliver Sacks was diagnosed with ocular melanoma nine years ago- although he lost sight in the eye, it was treated with radiation and lasers and left intact. Unfortunately, he learned earlier this year that his melanoma had metastasized to his liver, as happens in about 50% of ocular melanoma cases.) It wasn’t a big deal to us. In a family where my dad had an artificial leg and my grandmother had full dentures, a glass eye was no big whoop. We used to joke that before long, we’d be able to make a whole new person just out of everyone’s extra body parts.

my dad, Fred, my grandpa George,
Aunt MaryAnne (picking her nose) and Uncle Bob

Just before I graduated from high school, a checkup discovered a mass in uncle Fred’s liver. He went for treatment and learned it was cancer. He had what they called recurring ocular melanoma, meaning it was a melanoma type of cancer that had originated in his eye,  and it would keep returning. Melanoma is a particularly deadly type of cancer- it’s why skin cancers are so dangerous. (Melanoma is cancer of the melanocytes. Melanocytes are found in two places in your body: in your skin and in the colored parts of your eyes. Ocular melanoma is much rarer than melanomas that occur in your skin.) Melanomas don’t respond well to traditional cancer treatments like chemo or radiation. The most successful way to treat melanoma is to remove as much of it as possible. And do so each time it comes back, and in each new location.

They removed nearly three-quarters of my uncle Fred’s liver. (The liver is pretty cool, by the way. It regenerates!) It came back, took over his stomach and then it was just unstoppable. Fred’s doctors were at the University of Pittsburgh. In addition to his treatments, surgeries and check-in visits, he also participated in some trials for immunotherapy, which seemed to have a great deal of promise in treating melanomas. My dad drove him to his appointments and then brought him back to our house to recuperate until he felt strong enough to go back to the home he shared with his mother. He always needed to just be left alone after those doctors’ visits. I’m learning that I’m a lot like him; we’re people who need alone time to regenerate and recharge ourselves. Being surrounded by people- even those caring for us- is exhausting.

When he was at our house, we didn’t fuss over him. He got Kevin’s room when he stayed with us and he could come and go as he pleased. My mom would make sure we had his favorite foods (and snacks, most importantly) and if he needed anything, he just had to ask.

Bob, Fred, my dad & Grandpa George

Fred struggled to deal with the hand he had been dealt. Especially when they had to remove part of his stomach and he had to change his diet significantly. It frustrated him to no end that as a person who had always been so active, he was now tired and frail. Hospice was an enormous help when we finally called for their services. In addition to the things hospice is known for, like getting him set up with the necessary equipment so he could be at home and not have to deal with any more hospital stays, they provided support to his family members and counseled him, helping him work through his emotions.

I had just moved to Rochester to my first real grown-up apartment and grown-up job. I was lonely and didn’t really like the city so I came home often. I observed the changes in Fred first-hand. Hospice helped him find peace. It was extraordinary to experience.

All the Barneses got together for Easter that year. Uncle Fred wanted to be a part of everything. He recorded everything on video. Even though he really couldn’t eat, he sat at the table with us at each meal. He laughed at the cousins trying to balance spoons on our noses at the table. And when a bunch of us went out to the bar that night, he insisted on hugging each of us goodbye as we left. I’ll always remember how fragile he felt, how it seemed like I could feel every bone in his body when he hugged me, and how tightly he held all of us, as if he was worried maybe it might be the last time.

Thanks to hospice, Fred was able to die in the place he loved best, his camp at Cayuta Lake.

Earlier in the day, before we set out to find Fred’s “lost lake camp” and before we had breakfast at Chef’s, I signed up for my first Women Swimmin’. I wonder now about that timing, if Fred somehow led us to his camp as a reminder of why this swim is important. I felt Fred with me that first year I swam. I thought about what a kick he would’ve gotten from me doing this event. So I did it again the next year. And I’m doing it this year as well.

You can support my swim and help others experience the services Fred did by clicking this link.

Ladies First

I like to read this Tumblr called Suri’s Burn Book. It’s gossip and snark in the voice of Suri Cruise and it’s pretty hysterical.
Recently this photo was posted with the caption, “Yes, please. This is how I like America to be represented abroad.” And I thought again how refreshing it is to have an attractive, well-dressed First Family in the White House, particularly a stylish First Lady like Michelle Obama.

You see, unlike folks who were around in the 1960s and were blessed with the sartorial splendor of Jackie Kennedy, I grew up with nary a White House style icon to be found until Michelle Obama came around.

You see what I mean.

Here are the other First Ladies that have been in office during my lifetime so far, and a brief assessment of their fashion panache or lack thereof:

Betty Ford– “… had a … fashion sense that embodied late-seventies mod during a time when it was easy to wear clothes that looked like couch covers.”

Rosalyn Carter– “The dedicated mental health activist didn’t have much interest for bold fashion, and focused her attention to policy initiatives that represented her own interests and those of the President.”

Source: http://style.time.com/2013/02/18/our-fair-ladies-the-14-most-fashionable-first-ladies/

Nancy Reagan-The worst of the 80s, right? Superskinny, usually clad in rooster red, Dynasty-era ruffles and pouffy football-helmet-hair.

Barbara Bush– I never could get past that SNL skit when Nora Dunn’s talk show hostess made the mistake of thinking Barbara was George Sr.’s mother, not wife.

Hillary Clinton– Mistakes were made. Headbands. That gold inaugeral ball cape. Always seemed uncomfortable in what she was dressed in until she discovered pantsuits.

Laura Bush– I genuinely can’t remember anything she ever wore, which tells you all you need to know.

 Now, of course, there’s more to the First Ladies than just their appearance. Many of them contributed greatly to our country and women’s history in general. Some are my own personal heroes like Eleanor Roosevelt, admired for what they accomplished in spite of the restrictive and rather low expectations the public had of them. Others seem to have ended up just footnotes in our history or tangential asides. Or inside jokes.

When Brett and I lived in Northwest Ohio, it was a long, boring 6-hour drive home to see our families. To pass the time, we listened to music and made up band names or trivia team names. Some were clever, most were puerile, some just riffs on alliteration. One time, overtired, giddy with too much caffeine and quite possibly experiencing a bout of temporary insanity, I got stuck on alliteration with Pat Nixon’s name. Pat Nixon’s poothole, specifically. I was cracking myself up, coming up with gems like “Pat Nixon’s Poothole Prefers Personal Pan Pizzas” and “Poking Pencils Past Pat Nixon’s Poothole” and “When Prodded, Pat Nixon’s Poothole Plays Possum.” I have no idea where any of this came from, and why, if every word in the phrase had to begin with P, I didn’t come up with a celebrity whose initials were P.P., like Pablo Picasso or Peter Parker. Why Pat Nixon, I really don’t know.  I can’t say I even knew that much about her at the time. (And her name wasn’t even Pat! That was a nickname! Her real name was Thelma!)

(Sidenote: Apparently, while I was yammering on about Pat Nixon’s butt during that drive back to Western NY, Brett was trying to think of a way to propose to me. I didn’t realize how preoccupied he was; I just thought he erroneously did not find Pat Nixon’s poothole as awesomely funny as I did.)

Although as a child I was fascinated with the US Presidency, it’s only later on that I’ve learned more about the women of the White House. So here are my top ten favorite bits of trivia about the First Ladies, Pat Nixon excluded. I think I owe her a respite from the spotlight, along with my apologies. (Although she was the first First Lady to earn a graduate degree. And the first First Lady to wear pants in public. Yeah. I had to read that one twice. What the hell.)

Friends, THAT is a hat.

1. Abigail Adams urged her husband to “remember the ladies” when he was writing the nation’s Declaration of Independence in 1776. She also was the first to live in the White House.

2. Elizabeth Monroe ended the custom of a president’s wife making the first social call on the wives of other officials in Washington – and the insulted women boycotted her White House receptions. (Bitches, man.)

3. Louisa Adams was the only first lady born in a foreign country—England. She played the harp, wrote satirical plays and raised silkworms.

4. Sarah Polk  forbid dancing and card playing in the White House.

5. Eliza Johnson taught her husband how to spell and pronounce words properly, but tuberculosis prevented her from being hostess, a role assumed by their daughter Martha Patterson, who milked cows at the White House every morning.

She also owned slaves,
so I don’t feel bad about this.

6. Julia Grant was cross-eyed.

7. Lucy Hayes was the first to ban all alcoholic beverages from the White House. She also hosted the first Easter Egg Roll on the White House lawn.

8.  Florence Harding was first first lady to vote, fly in an airplane, operate a movie camera, own a radio, and invite movie stars to White House. She also was accused of poisoning her husband, who died during his third year in office.

Lou inspecting one of the cannons at a 
Chinese fort that shelled the community of Tientsin
during the Boxer Rebellion. Badass.

9. Grace Coolidge worked as a teacher of deaf students, and became the first first lady to speak in sound newsreels.

10. Lou Hoover spoke Chinese fluently.
(and wins for Most Dr. Seuss-esque First Lady’s Name.)

 Source: http://www.firstladies.org/didyouknow.aspx

Synchronicity of Underpants

At least once every summer, I take a day off and head to Taughannock Park for some sunning, swimming and reading. I try to go in the middle of the week because the park gets INSANE on weekends in the summer.

Today, I was the only one on the bus as we set off for the park. I had snacks, Oliver Sacks’ newest book, and a blankie to loll on. I was the only person on the bus on the way there. 
Near the front, I saw what I thought was the bus driver’s lunchbox. It looked like it had the word “whisky” embroidered on the front, which I thought was odd, or perhaps inappropriately honest for a lunchbox. (On closer inspection, it said “Husky” and didn’t belong to the bus driver at all; a camp kid had left it behind earlier that morning.)
I like to go to the north point of the park- most people don’t bother going all the way over to that side, so it’s usually pretty quiet and private. Except there were a ton of ducks there today. I counted a mama with eight ducklings and at least two other such groupings. They, like me, were obviously avoiding the public beach, too.
I moved around the shoreline with the sun- winding up on the other side of the park, surrounded by geese, oddly. They left me alone, for which I was grateful. But then the funniest thing happened- one made a funny little squawk and they all lined up and stood at attention. Another squawk and every single one of them went into the water and began swimming away. 

 The bus ride back to Ithaca was uneventful, until…

…two entire camp-fuls of kids got on the bus at Cass Park. Now, granted, this is only two miles away from downtown, where my stop was. (One time a few years back I got stuck on the bus at the park with several dozen campers. It had rained throughout the day and everyone was soaked from either swimming or the run from the picnic shelter to the bus. The little boy sitting next to me looked at me and my wet hair with such joy on his face and declared loudly, “Everyone on this bus has wet bottoms!”) But today, those two miles were about 10 minutes of pure, excruciating hell, made worse by the fact that I had a headache from straining my eyes reading in the sun.
This pretty much captures what it was like.
There was barely enough room on the bus for all the campers. The kid sitting next to me kept bouncing up and down on the seat. The ones who had to stand were swinging from the straps like monkeys on PCP. They almost all to a one smelled like dead worms somehow, and one very large child was PISSED that there was another camp on the bus who took all the “good” seats at the back of the bus. He proceeded to shout at the bus driver about how much he hated him and how this was all his fault, while his skinny, ineffectual, high-pitched whisper-voiced scraggly-goateed camp counselor tried to talk some rationality into him. The bus driver just sailed back and in a big cheery voice told him next time he could ride on the bike rack mounted on the front of the bus. The kid laughed and was fine; apparently this is a conversation that has been had before.
There was a little girl with a rainbow striped shirt, long hair and a long-suffering expression on her face sitting in the seat perpendicular to me. The boys in the seat next to her kept shoving her into me and she kept apologizing to me. I just smiled back at her sympathetically.
And then I overheard this conversation:
Counselor: Ian, uh… Ian? Where are your underpants?
Ian: *shrugs* I dunno. 
Counselor: What do you mean you don’t know?
Ian: I guess I lost ’em.
Counselor: How could that happen… Ian, please stop that. Ian! You’re being very inappropriate right now! Please- just close the hole up, will you? You’re being very inappropriate. Can you cover it up? Well, then, just… oh man. Please stop. Just stop. Can’t you, uh, cover it somehow? Oh no. Okay, never mind that. Where’s your towel? Where is your towel? *Looks toward back of bus in desperation* Caleb! Caleb, do you have your brother’s towel? Can you toss it up here? Thanks. Ian, keep this on your lap till we get to our stop.
The little girl perpendicular to me rolled her eyes and looked beleaguered- Ian was sitting right next to her. Again, she said, “Sorry.” I said, “No, I’m sorry,” glancing at her seat mate with his grungy, wet towel draped across his lap. You’ll probably end up going to prom with him with your luck, I wanted to say, but didn’t. She was in enough misery as it was.
A few minutes later, another counselor, who was sitting on the other side of the bus, female this time, had to ask Ian, very sweetly, very politely, to please keep his knees together.
I noticed Ian was the last one off the bus, still perched there in his seat, a towel on his lap like a surgical drape. I wondered how he was getting home- was someone going to pick him and his brother up at the library where they had gotten off the bus? God, I hoped they didn’t ride their bikes here, I thought, shuddering. I wondered how he would explain his towel-drape to whatever parents were waiting for him.
I should note that nearly every time I go on one of my little adventures, I manage to come across some

discarded underpants. It doesn’t matter if I’m hiking in the woods or exploring a new city- inevitably, I will find underpants. I’ve always wondered how someone loses their underpants in locations like these. They never appear to have just fallen out of a bag packed with other clothes. They are always alone, unaccompanied by any explanation as to why they were abandoned. It’s like they just spontaneously fell off their owner and onto the hiking trail, shrubs, sidewalk, street side planter, once even a cliffside. Who just loses their underpants in a public place?  What happens when they realize they are now sans drawers? Do they ever go back and look for them?

After years of coming across abandoned underwear, today I finally encountered an underpants-loser.  Thank you, Ian, for providing a synchronicity of underpants. I hope your folks were understanding.