"Michiana Dispatch"

Years ago, on Major Dad a character I created – who was like me – complained about camping,

“I don’t ‘get’ camping. ‘Hey, we’ve got some spare time. Why don’t we go someplace and live worse than we usually do?’”

That’s us, in Michiana.

The natural setting? Even a “chronic complainer” can’t complain about that.  It’s the Primeval Forest, with unpaved roads.  Green.  Lush. We saw deer – a mama and her baby – the first hour we were here.  (We told them to stay away from the roads.  We’d hate to see those guys lying down.)  

Oh, and the air!  If someone here visited L.A. they’d take one breath and go, 

“What did you doto it?”

Michiana is sun-dappled Paradise.  (If Paradise was green and lush and all its streets were named after Indian tribes.) 

But then there’s the cabin.

   

Okay, this is our fault. We don’t come here that often.  We do not give it adequate attention.  If the cabin were children, the “Authorities” would take it away from us and give it to nicer people.  That does not live two thousand miles away, and shows up only biannually.

Expecting it always to be perfect.

Which it inevitably is not.  

Once, flying all day to Chicago and then driving to the country, arriving late at night, we were unable to get in.  Heavy rains had swelled – swollened – swellened – the said he was in bed.  He finally agreed to come out when we reminded him he was a “24-hour Locksmith.” 

Another time, while setting things up, I slid my electric piano from its encasing box, and a mouse suddenly jumped out.  

Yes.  

People actually go, “Eek!”

These stories building to the crescendo I ‘ve been trying to avoid but no longer can,

This year:

Our only toilet is broken.

You’ll have to admit, this is not “Oh, he’s such a snob.”

Our only toilet is broken!

This is not, you need to “go” and there’s nowhere to go.  This is, you may need to “go” sometime, and that option is not on the table.

Less urgency, perhaps, but more tension.

There are a lot of things here you can do without. Once, our water heater went kaput. Inconvenient, but we “made do”, heating water in big pots and pouring it over each other in the shower stall.  

Romantic, but scalding.

But when a toilet overflows when you flush it, there is no available “Plan B.”  

Except to go to a restaurant when you’re not hungry, so you can use their “facilities.” 

Or this.

Which happened last night. (So I guess there’s alwaysa “Plan B.”)

Imagine this.  Or, if you prefer not to, don’t.

You get up in the middle of the night, feeling “the need.’  You go outside.  Not to a “privy.”  But to actually “go” outside.

It’s dark.  No one’s awake.  There is no,

“He’s old.  Let’s wait up, and we’ll see him ‘do it.’”

I’m alone.

In the forest.  (Sufficiently far from the cabin.)

Hoping mosquitoes are dozing, because… never mind.

That’s what it’s down to. A man of means and two Emmys, “going” outdoors.

  

Oh well.  At least I now know the secret the age-old conundrum:

“Does a Jew pee in the woods?”

The answer is, 

“Did I have any choice?”

Written awaiting a plumber.