Confirmed: It Was The Suit

The Old Man is not a fan of confinement. Before the days of cell phones and when blackberries came off of a thorny vine and in a wizard named Alma's hands, morphed into the finest cobbler known to mankind, I spent more time in phone booths than Clark Kent. I was a salesman, and as such, was away from my office most of the day. My only form of communication was the phone booth. Stifling in the summer heat and freezing in winter's chill, they served me as well as could be expected, but they also gave me the willies. I sometimes felt as if I were in a glass walled casket. Confinement personified.



For a spell, we had a houseboat. It wasn't much to look at in the yachting world.....a camper mounted on pontoons. It did, however, have all the facilities needed to get by. The shower/toilet was about the size of those phone booths. Pretty ingenious use of space, though. You could shower, brush your teeth, and ...well, you know, all at the same time. From time to time, while you were in there, some fool would go by wide open and the wake from his boat would throw you against the door spilling your naked, tooth-brushed self out into the hall, while the shower hose flopped around like a python juiced on Red Bull. At least the confinement would end at that point and the others on the boat would discover real amusement.



But perhaps the scariest period of confinement I can recall occurred "up in the country". We would go to visit relatives who lived on a farm outside of town. They were (and still are) "salt of the earth" people. They lived according to the old ways; raising most all they ate, mending, repairing, making do, and doing what they could to earn a living. They farmed, ran a sawmill, and hunted wild game. They were a tough lot; hardened by necessity and by their environment. I love the memory of those who have gone, and love the contact with those who are left. They are among my heroes. Into this culture came yours truly. I lived in town. Already, I'm two strikes toward out. I didn't have to kill my own chickens. Strike three. Upon striking out, my cousins decided to lock me in the outhouse. In I went for the most innocent of purposes, and the next thing I knew, from outside, giggling spilled over into guffaws and I realized I was stuck. They had bolted the door. Now, forget about the modern Port-A-John concept. At the very least they have that nice blue chemical that works to deodorize for the first hour or so. No such with an outhouse; no Scrubbing Bubbles, no Tidy-Bowl. It was as I recall, a "one-holer". One hole with no mystery as to its contents.



After about a half hour of me beating on the door, they finally relented and let me out. Of course, I stormed off with righteous indignation flying off me like water drops off a Golden Retriever. They were practically clutching their sides laughing.



I had a conversation with one of them just a few weeks ago. I playfully jibed her for her role in my confinement and she said, "You probably had on that white suit." It was as if I had suddenly discovered the meaning of life! No wonder all those years ago, they had attempted to teach me a lesson. Without even realizing it, I learned in that outhouse the penalty for arrogance. I had unintentionally sent the message that I may have thought I was better than them. In my own defense, however, I had help. I didn't choose the white suit.



But now, 60 years later, I understand.