I grew up in a small house with three sisters and one bathroom. Add my mom and dad, and you don’t have to be a mathematician to know that’s an equation begging for logistical problems.
Given the number of scheduling conflicts over the course of a childhood, I learned to travel the path of least resistance.
For the lesser of my bathroom needs, the backyard jack pine sufficed during daylight hours; while nighttime found me in the company of a good shadow provided by the glow of streetlights. It was peaceful. A little chilly in winter, but still peaceful.
As for the greater of nature’s numerical calls, when waiting my turn was absolutely not an option, and banging against the bathroom door yelling murderous threats produced no results, I sprinted across the street to Jim and Lynn’s house.
Jim and Lynn moved to Roseau, Minnesota when I was about nine years old.
Jim was a friendly guy about 30 with the straightest teeth I’d ever seen. He talked like Kermit the Frog. Not once did he turn me down for a game of catch with the baseball. He’d even played semi-professionally and gave me pointers on pitching.
Most importantly, Jim drove the Frito-Lay potato chip truck. Once a month, my family found a big cardboard box on our front porch filled with bags of Cheetos and Funyuns.
Lynn became my mother’s closest friend and confidant. They talked at least twice a day over the telephone despite living 75 feet from each other’s front door.
(Jim and Lynn’s house, and my dad blowing snow, apparently the entire street.)
Had she wanted, Lynn could have moved to South America and kept in touch with my mother just as well. I’m not sure what they talked about. All I know is it was everything. It had to be. Nobody can spend that much time on a telephone and not have covered every subject from Aardvark to Zyzzyva.
Given the closeness I felt around Jim and Lynn, I felt safe requesting the use of their bathroom in my greatest times of need.
Honestly, the word “bathroom” doesn’t seem good enough. “Safe house” or “room of mercy” feels more appropriate.
I’ve done quite a bit of thinking on this subject, and I think the highest compliment you can pay somebody is to ask permission to use their bathroom when you’re visibly experiencing intense irritable bowel syndrome.
If I had to choose anyone to spot a kid about to soil his drawers based on facial features and the frequency of doorbell rings, I’d choose Jim and Lynn. Their hand gesture welcoming me in was not unlike a Labrador’s master unleashing it to fetch a tennis ball.
I will always be grateful to Jim and Lynn for their friendship with my family and the many games of catch with the baseball.
I cannot overemphasize, however, how equally grateful I am for their discretion and adequate plumbing, without which who knows where I’d be.
Love,
Aaron