Tushy

[Above photo: Tushy, the add-on bidet. That’s an invention I wish I’d made!]

27 October 2021

To this Californian who spent the last 4 ½ years in tropical latitudes, winter has come. Mainers would say, “Not yet. Pretty toasty still.” Today it is 46 F outside, with rain and wind in equal measure. I am attempting to be comfortable at 68 F inside, which is an effort for me. Yangon and Blantyre were only that cold during the last Ice Age!

Now that I am nearly settled, the reality of my solitary existence wraps around me. It is strange for me to consider my unattached state. At times I feel like I’m at a dance in high school without a partner and compare myself with those more enmeshed unfavorably. I must appear like someone’s eccentric uncle, I imagine, perhaps an object of pity.  Yet the freedom to seek society when I want and not have to constantly consider what the effect on another of my sitting in the living room or listening to John Coltrane (or Bach) is excellent. I’m watching the glamorous, deceptive mess of Hemmingway’s life on PBS and don’t envy it at all. But I’m not built as he was and couldn’t have considered all the infidelity in which he engaged, let alone want to be on display at all times. If I awaken at 4:30AM, as I did today, I can try to fall asleep or I can switch on the light and continue reading Anita Desai’s Baumgartner’s Bombay without worrying I’ll disturb my bed-mate. I am struggling to adjust to a different phase in my life, I suppose.

Onwards and downwards! After expelling yesterday’s meals, for the past nearly 5 years I have used small hoses which are attached to toilets to spray myself. Said hoses are all over Africa and SE Asia. It makes sense, feels pleasantly clean, and saves toilet tissue. In going through my storage space I came across ‘Tushy’, a bidet-attachment I had ordered 4 years ago, which accomplishes the same without any contortions, gymnastics, or wild streams, since it has a fixed nozzle. My unit, which uses cold water, attaches to any toilet easily in about 10 minutes. It requires a pair of pliers and a screw driver. It does not require a plumber.  I can’t say it has drastically changed my life but it is a terrific addition to the household.  I encourage anyone reading this to check the link, hellotushy.com, if only for the cute pictures.  Tushy makes a warm-water model, as well.

We in the US are not as advanced in some realms as we enjoy imagining. Our internet services have lagged behind Europe and Asia. Much of the world uses water to clean, not paper to smear.  A little bit of tissue to blot yourself dry and, voila, as good as new! In developing countries you generally must supply the tissue. In the bathroom in my building at the College of Medicine in Malawi, the previous year’s financial report had been cut into neat squares and placed on a shelf behind the toilet. A good use of such a document, I think.

Needing a haircut last week, I walked to Longfellow Barber Shop on Congress Street, the closest to me. One chair, one barber. “Walk-ins. No appointments.” Norm at 84yo, has run it in the same spot since 1961. He gets up about 4:30AM, rides with his wife to the Saco bus stop, catches a 6:02AM bus, and is at his shop by 6:15AM. That is, if Terry is the bus driver that day because he arrives at 6:02AM exactly. Norm reverses direction in the afternoon, closing his shop at 5PM.

He is a kayaker—-or was. He had a number of Folboats and Klepper singles and loved to go out in the ocean when it was rough. I did also, and we swapped [tall] tales, as happens in barbershops. At the end he said, “It’s nice to talk with someone with whom you have something in common.” I agreed.

Norm is a meticulous barber, using warm lather and a straight-edge razor on my neck. He isn’t rushed but moves easily and surely. It’s the best haircut I’ve had in memory, all for $12.

I drove to Old Chatham, NY, across the western border of Massachusetts, to visit Harold and Connie. They have a spectacularly beautiful 90 acres set in a bowl of deciduous trees doing their Autumn thing, with a pond, a tennis court, two gazebos, a fenced kitchen garden, and wonderful lawns and plantings. And an ancient shagbark hickory whose height is 3’ greater than its distance from the house. The primary house is late 1700’s, built around a central chimney, and it was kept in the same family. H & C have made it all into a lovely, comfortable retreat, especially useful during these COVID years, when they pulled back from Manhattan.

We biked on the old electric railroad trail, hiked on Greylock Mountain, and hit tennis balls, eating and laughing in between the exercise. I imagined I’d be able to pick up a tennis racquet and resume where I left off 30 years ago. I wasn’t that good then and, not surprisingly, my skills have deteriorated. It was pretty astounding to me, since I have an image of myself as quite athletic but the reality was, well, shocking!

Tennis is a common entrée for expats in Africa and SE Asia. “Clubs” often have tennis as their centerpiece, although drinking, eating, and chatting actually occupy much more time. I felt chagrined at my clumsiness on Harold’s court, simultaneously enjoying the experience. Perhaps I’ll join an indoor tennis club as a primary setting for winter exercise.

I wanted my drive to Old Chatham to be on byways, so as to pass through the Green Mountains in Vermont. But Google Maps kept insisting I take the Maine turnpike so as to save 1 ¼ hours driving time. This digital conflict had me following a variety of little roads near Portland, often directing me in u-turns and other specious moves.  It exhausted my patience and I yielded, taking the pike and saving the time. On my return trip, however, I studied the map and was able to outwit Google, passing though Bennington, Brattleboro, and Keene. Although the view was partially obscured by drizzle and fog, the Fall colors beamed through mutedly in scarlets, orange, and yellows. I stopped once for food but after 15 minutes waiting and no movement, I skipped lunch in favor of returning in daylight and having pho ga at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant here. It, of course, was closed on Monday but I happily bought a pizza and salad in my neighborhood and retired to my apartment, exhausted.

One final trip to Bar Harbor will allow me to finish sorting my stored belongings and move what I keep to a smaller space. That part of contracting, shrinking, feels good.