THAT IS THE QUESTION

To suitcase or not to suitcase? That is the question. 

I think Shakespeare said this -- probably on his way to vacation. 

Honestly, I would like nothing better than to fit four days' worth of clothes into a backpack that fits under the airline seat. It would make my life so much better and my flying experience so much easier. I hate fighting for overhead space, and I hate even more the people deplaning who do not understand the concept of getting their luggage and getting off of the aircraft. 

However, where I am traveling is going to be in the 90s with some rain and humidity. The place where I am staying does not have guest laundry. I have played this game before when I under-packed for a trip to Delaware for one of my kiddos' lacrosse tournaments. It was 104 degrees with high humidity every day for the whole week, and, despite the website's insistence, there was no guest laundry at the hotel. 

Do you know how many times a day one must change underwear when one is outside in the sun or dodging rain-soaked tornado-force storms over the course of five to seven days? The answer is: A LOT.

Just ask the housekeeping crew who saw all of my handwashed clothing hang-drying in the bathroom and all over the room when they came in to change sheets and replenish towels halfway through my stay. It looked like a squatter situation.

For this upcoming trip, I have packed and unpacked and repacked and unpacked again and under-packed and over-packed and packed everything so many times and so many ways that I could teach a master class on minimalist vs. comfort-level clothes packing.

The truth of the matter is simple and three-fold: ONE = I don't want to re-wear sweaty clothing nor do I want to handwash anything; TWO = I want room to bring my better camera this time rather than relying on my phone with its blind view in the light of day; and THREE = (the true reason) I want room for souvenirs.

I understand the issues here, as well. A backpack that fits under the seat eliminates jockeying for overhead space. As a later boarder with a forward seat, the risk of luggage space running out is real. Carrying a suitcase through the city, on public transportation, and around the streets until hotel check-in time (or until we are even near to the hotel) is going to be a pain. But, and this is huge, I won't get overheated with a backpack pressed against my boiling hot spine while summer attempts to kill me. Even if I did, my suitcase has extra clothes to spare.

I am repack the suitcase for the third time after unpacking the backpack yet again for the same amount of times. I leave the suitcase open. I try to sleep. At 2:00 a.m., I wake with a brainstorm, creep out to the living room, unpack the suitcase, and let piles of clothing sit out while my brain stews. I go back to sleep. I am up and repacking the backpack shortly after dawn.

Be aware that I am still 48 hours from leaving. (I am busy the day before, so I am trying to get this task off of my plate.) Off and on all day I stare at the backpack, but it stays packed. Unzipped, mind you, but packed. This is progress. For now.

I sincerely doubt that this question, to suitcase or not to suitcase, will be answered until moments before I need to leave for the airport. Whichever packing option wins, I promise that I will not arrive at my destination without at least one change of clothes and some clean pajamas. 

I fold a fabric zipper bag into the bottom of the backpack in case I do want souvenirs and decide to put the backpack itself into the overhead bin for the trip home. Then again, I can always buy a suitcase for the return trip when I get there, if I change my mind yet again.

Thank goodness I'm not going to Vegas or Atlantic City -- I'm having enough trouble gambling on my luggage. I'll let you know which wins.

HE'S JUST A POE BOY

Once upon an outing dreary

On a Friday - we weren't weary -

(That is all I'll steal from Poe,

Lest I cause the readers woe)

A buddy and I both did go

Away to Lowell to see a show

Based on works by Edgar Allan

(Talked to raven with its talon

Sitting high above the floor,

Tapping, rapping at the door).

Acting serious and cheesy

At the E A Poe Speakeasy,

Watching, watching through the veils,

Drinking, drinking small cocktails.

Tales of terror total four;

Entire evening - not a bore.

If you get a chance to see,

It's a recommend from me, 

If some tickets you do score,

You can thank me ... nevermore.

GETTING GOOSED WITH A PADDLE

I don't take my kayak out nearly as often as I should. Oh, I keep that sucker in my SUV all summer long and into autumn, but I really should take to the water more often than I do. I also tend to go to the same pond over and over again. To be fair, my usual spot is a large pond, larger than some of the things we call lakes around here. It has interesting wildlife. I've seen several heron, lots of turtles, an otter, geese, ducks, and quite often fish will jump right out of the water and splash back in again, scaring the ever-loving buhjeezuhs out of me.

I often pass another pond, one I've never paddled. 

I've spotted a picnic area and a parking lot with a small boat ramp there. It's not too far from my house, so I spontaneously decide to give it a go. It's a pretty small pond. It's also deserted. I should be able to kayak its perimeter and traverse it a few times in an hour or less. And, no, I am not deterred by the amount of goose poop in the small grassy area.

The pond is murky, not with vegetation, but with brownish water. It's calm, and I've done my research so I know its depth is only about nine feet, but it's strange not being able to see below the surface. The launch site, a bank of earth that meets the gravel boat ramp, is deeply muddied despite a recent run of dry, extremely hot weather. This may explain the opaque water. I sink into the wet ground and wobble a bit before sitting atop the open kayak. It takes a few attempts to maneuver my way from the shore since the mud is pulling at the kayak and the oar I use to push off.

Finally, I'm in the open water.

I scoot around the perimeter, realizing the lack of fallen trees or limbs means that I won't be seeing any turtles today. As I head across the pond, I spot movement. Quietly and very, very slowly, I inch over toward the opposite shore where I see a hefty, regal heron. It is stunning. It is the largest one I have ever seen in the wild, and it politely stays unmoving as I get within about forty feet. I don't want to crowd the bird. This is its home, and I'm the invader. Plus, to be honest, if that sucker flies at me, I'm going overboard, and no one will ever find my body.

The remainder of the paddle is blessedly uneventful, if not a little too sedate, and I work my way back toward the launch area. I see one goose, and then I spot another one. The car is only a short way from the shore, maybe twenty feet, but I don't need to contend with an angry goose or two, so I slap the paddle on the water several yards away, hoping to move them along. I decide to chance it, hoping for benevolent geese as I grapple with the vacuum effect of the muddied shoreline. 

By the time I break down the kayak and gear and get it loaded, which takes only about three minutes, the geese are back and have called in reinforcements. I rapidly slam the rear hatch shut and jump into the driver's seat, although I am fully prepped and ready to jump in from the passenger side, as necessary. 

Safely behind metal and glass, I sit for a moment and get my phone oriented. My reverie is interrupted by frantic honking and the bellow of a gentleman in a work van. "Come on. Move it! Get the hell out of the road!" I look up to see my feathered friends meandering back across the busy street, single file and with space enough to be total arseholes, off to wander about the nearby neighborhood, perhaps to terrorize the elderly, harass the young, or piss off a dog.

Maybe the town should consider installing a plastic coyote on the goose-poop-infested lawn of the small park that houses the launch access. It might encourage the dumbass fowl to enter the pond from a more wildlife-friendly location. You know, like where the heron hangs out. It might help the traffic flow, too.

 It certainly would make kayaking less exciting, though.

EXPLORING WITHOUT PROPER DIRECTIONS

I like to explore when I go places. 

The good news is that I usually find something interesting and unexpected. The bad news is that I have zero sense of direction, and by "zero" I mean that sometimes I stand up and turn the wrong direction inside of my own home because I happen to be sitting in a chair that I don't usually sit in . . . and have forgotten this basic piece of information.

I head north about 90 miles, armed with GPS, a blurry printed map, and a vague sense of where I am supposed to be going. I can do this, right? Sure I can.

Until I can't.

About ten miles out, my cell service cuts out. Somehow the GPS map is still working for another few miles. The moment I get to a familiar point and shall begin departing from the straight and narrow, my entire GPS service cuts out. I pull over into a parking lot and try to reset everything. Sometimes restarting my phone is all I need to get back into cyber-civilization. When this fails, I resort to a quick peek at the map. Easy, right?

Wrong. 

I immediately find myself at soccer fields instead of my intended target: a small covered bridge. Maybe I didn't have the fields on the map, so I continue a little further. Nope. Now I'm at an ice cream stand. Tempting ... but not where I should be at 10:00 a.m. Interesting destination and definitely worthy of note, of course, but still not the bridge.

I know that the bridge is near the police station and sort of near the high school, so I pull over and enter both destinations, one at a time, into both Google and Waze. Oh, silly me -- I have no mobile service. Dummy! Well, I know the way back to the original crossroads, and there was an old cemetery that looked cool near there, so at least I will see that.

I stop at the cemetery, note that it is remarkably well tended considering the ages of the headstones are mostly Civil War era, and creep around with my camera. I find both a crow feather and a hawk feather on the ground, side by side, like some kind of karmic message. I decide that I am going to find this dang bridge if it takes me all morning. I peruse the map once again and note a road that I passed twice: Gunstock Hill Road. 

Aha! If I take that road, I can cut over to where I need to be. I get in the car and start off, turning onto the road and climbing, up and up and up. It's nice out here -- farms and homes and (of all unexpected things) a huge hacienda. I merge briefly with what I am mostly positive is the same road I was on originally before I found the cemetery. A couple of turns later, and I am at the bridge. Ta-dah!

I hang out, take some photos, then start toward my ultimate goal, which is a nearby small lakefront resort. Coming back down Gunstock Hill, I see in front of me what I hadn't seen behind me on the way up: a magnificent and panoramic view of the mountain range and a huge chunk of Lake Winnipesaukee. I also verify that had I not mis-turned originally, I would've found my way a lot sooner and more easily. I also would have missed the ice cream stand, the cemetery, and the two feathers.

Sometimes I explore new places, and sometimes they explore me. Either way, it's a win-win.

ALPHABETICAL AFTERNOON

Against an iron sky

Buoyant water lilies await

Cumbrous rain while

Dignified cattails 

Edge the shore and

Flora chokes access from the

General public whose 

Hubris 

Interrupts the

Juxtaposition of 

Kaleidoscopic air and

Lake 

Melding 

Nuanced clouds

Over

Placid surface and

Quilting watery

Reflections into

Satisfying

Tangles of an

Unbroken 

Vista

Where the 

Xanthic stillness of the water

Yields to the 

Zephyrous approaching storm

 

ADAPTING TO THE SITUATION

I've gotten too complacent.

I expect that when I rent a car, I will be able to plug in my phone charger. Simple, right? In all of the years that I have been traveling with a cell phone, I have always had multiple ports in rental cars and in hotel rooms. I can either plug in using the USB cable or the regular plug.

Oh, I own multiple, and I do mean MULTIPLE adapters. I have USB A, B, C, micro, HDMI, multi-plugs, and the ones that go into the old lighter jacks. But I usually only need the one I bring with me in my backpack pretty much everywhere I go.

Until the Toyota Camry rental in North Carolina.

I need either a lighter jack adapter (left all of them at home and in my car at the bus terminal back in Boston) or a USB C to C. I have neither. The kicker is that the port on the airplane was loose, and I didn't realize that the phone battery was draining rather than charging, so I have to figure out the car charger situation. 

My phone is so low on charge that I decide I'd probably better not get on the highway from the airport to my destination. Trying a new and different backroads route from the airport (I like to experiment with my directional deficiencies) means that I must have the phone reminding me of where I should and shouldn't turn. About two miles away from the airport, I spot a Walgreens. Perfect. I pull into the parking lot and walk out into the blue skies and sunny warmth of a Southern summer.

I have to wait in a short line, but I find what I am looking for: a lighter jack multi-port for $7.99. Never mind that I already own four or five of them (at home). I guess I'm now some kind of weird collector.  I pay and walk out the front doors, back into the parking lot that had just been brutally hot and bright.

The whole transaction from car to display to cash register to car takes maybe eleven minutes.

In that short time, though, the wind has picked up, the temperature has dropped, and the sky has turned an ominous green-black. Thunder rolls nearby, and I rapidly surmise that I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto. I start the car, plug in the adapter, set Waze, and drive to the parking lot exit. As I attempt to make a right turn onto the road, the heavens drop. Rain is pouring down so fiercely that the wipers cannot even keep pace. Tree limbs are flying by faster than Almira Gulch rides her bicycle through the tornado. 

Any attempt on my part to make note of landmarks, so I can return to the airport the way I'm going when the time comes, is washed away in rivulets of water. It is like the car has been covered with a continuous wave. There are city workers just parked in the lanes of the road, picking up branches and, in some cases, entire trees. The little car does its impression of the Nautilus and I am Captain Nemo as we plod through mini-ponds in the small valleys along the route.

Thirty minutes later I arrive at my destination. Thunder still rumbles in the distance, and the rain has almost stopped. The good news is that the phone is charging, and it didn't flake out on me. I will just have to remember to take the charger with me before I turn the car back in at the airport. 

After all, what's one more adapter for the collection? Maybe it'll be worth something in the future.

KEEPING THE SPARK ALIVE

There's a broken lightbulb in one of my ceiling light fixtures. By "broken" I mean sheared off -- glass separated from metal screw ring. I know the correct procedure to solve this problem: wall switch off, breaker off, and a potato.

Except that I don't have a potato, and it's too late to go out and buy one.

However, there is no way that I am leaving the broken metal piece in the light fixture. There is also zero chance of me leaving the breaker off because it also runs all of the kitchen appliances, including the fridge, and, of course, I just bought groceries (but, alas, not any potatoes).

I know that pliers are the logical solution here, but I am not a logical person. When I was in my teens, I took a nasty electrical shock from a malfunctioning bun toaster while working at Burger King. I am not in any hurry to repeat that feeling nor the hours of Brain Scramble that followed it. 

So, I do what any other idiot would do: I Google it.

Several answers pop up -- most of them potato or pliers. There are two other options that strike me: duct tape and bar soap. I text two of my three children, both of whom are on the Cape (hours away but closer than the third child in North Carolina), and explain exactly what I intend to do. I tell them that if I do not text them within a half hour, to try and text me. If they get no answer, I might need an ambulance.

I investigate the duct tape option, which seems to me to be the safest bet. For some reason, having the shiny side out doesn't make sense to me, so I create a thick disk of sticky-side-out duct tape. This loosens the metal enough to form a miniscule metal lip. Honestly, I cannot fathom why this isn't working. Shouldn't the sticky duct tape grab the busted metal ring enough to turn it without any resistance? (Now that I consider it, perhaps I was supposed to use my finger against a square pad of duct tape to use as a buffer?)

Still unwilling to resort to pliers, although the exposed edge does present that as a viable solution, I grab an old bar of soap. (Yes, I keep the remainder of a bar or two to take with me when I go away on trips, but I am not a soap hoarder, I assure you.) All the soap does is crumble and create a falling mess that smells like English lavender all over the dining room floor.

I resort to duct tape yet again, manage to move the ring a tiny but more, and then decide it may be time to risk an electrical shock. Yes, I understand that the breaker is off, but remember, I have experienced a surprising and unexpected shock before. Couple that with the fact that I live alone and no one would find my body for days in the summer heat, and you have a possible episode of The Night Gallery.

The pliers that I own are not needle-nosed and they are not rubber-coated. But, I do have a small wire cutter, an old one, with rubber-coated handles. I use this to carefully grab the small ridge of metal and am able to turn the ring a bit. It takes a few more careful attempts to dislodge the misaligned ring until ... victory!

The damn bulb and its damn ring have been successfully removed from the light fixture.

I carefully screw in a new bulb, throw the breaker, then shuffle ever-so-slowly and with great trepidation to the wall switch. 

Let there be light -- and there was light!

I hear the angels singing, and it's not because I've shocked myself into oblivion. It's because I actually fixed something electrical and I didn't shock myself and I didn't set anything on fire, no sparks shot across the room, and nothing went pop nor started to smolder. It's a miracle, a true and fabulous miracle. A common household fix for any moron, I know, but let me have this moment. For me, it truly is ... electrifying.