If you've
spotted me out and about, chances are good I was on a bicycle. Contrary to
local myth, I do not spend all my time on a bike (I still have to work for
heaven’s sake), but most of my trips back and forth between my home and office
are made in the saddle.
I'm easy to spot,
and that's by design. The more folks who see me ahead, the better off I am.
Therefore, I light up front and back and wear all manner of wild colors in
between presenting myself, for lack of a better comparison, as a flashing neon
peacock.
Beyond this
visual shout, my gear falls straight to utility: helmet, mirror and shoe covers
for the days when the horse poop spikes the puddles on the roadside berm where
I ride. There are few situations I am not prepared for. I carry tools, tire
tubes and all other manner of emergency this-and-thats alongside my coffee
thermos, sack lunch and clothes for the day in a bright orange backpack.
Consistent with
my pathologically thrifty vibe, the backpack was a secondhand acquisition. Having
lived its first life on the back of a field technician with the U.S. government, the pack housed 30 or 40 pounds of electronic surveying equipment.
The thing is an indestructible marvel of ballistic nylon woven into a labyrinth
of zippers, pockets and Velcro enclosures. I've actually lost items for months
at a time amid its darkened folds — tools, clothing, medical bills and now,
worse.
My routine is to
hang the pack over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table once I
arrive home. Yes, that's pretty much in the middle of everything, but it's also
close to the fridge, the coffee maker and the door. I'm going to be filling it
with provisions and heading off to work again the next day, so I might as well
keep it handy.
The pack was
hanging in its spot the other night when my wife, seated nearby for dinner,
took to insisting she smelled something weird.
“I don't know. It's like a musty, moldy, vinegary smell,” Kristin said. “I can't really put my
finger on it.”
“Well, don't look
at me,” I laughed. “I have been known to grow a bit aromatic on occasion, but I
have been doing my best lately to wash on a somewhat regular basis.”
The discussion
ended without further investigation until the next evening, when the whole scene
repeated itself. This time Kristin's eyes fell to the backpack hanging from the
chair beside her.
“Um, John, do
you think it is at all possible that there is something rotting inside your
backpack?” she asked.
“Oh, so your super senses detect some mild
disturbance in your perfectly odor-free world, and suddenly, it’s my fault?” I
snipped, feigning indignation. “What is it with you?”
She shook her
head once and handed me the pack.
I shoved my hand
deep into the nylon catacombs, where my fingers fell upon a warm, gelatinous mass.
I winced and tugged the object to the surface, where Kristin and I both stared
agape at a sandwich bag of mushed and actively fermenting mulberries that had
to have been lost and forgotten all the way back in June!
“My ‘super
senses’ rest their case,” Kristin laughed.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.
