Pterodactyls and Port-a-potties

Since moving three weeks ago, Man-wonder and I have begun exploring our island again—little day trips here and there. Not roaming too far away that we can’t find our way home before dark.

A few days back we decided to check out an easy looping walk at a wilderness park further up island. Nice sunny day. A great day for a stroll. Note I said stroll,  not walk, and that’s because we have rediscovered that no matter how much we try to hustle along we have been, and still are being, passed by the masses. I guess it’s just something in our genetic make-up—born to plod.

But plodding has its rewards. At one point we stopped midway across a bridge over a gorge.  On the upper side was a falls slamming its way over the rocks,  forcing itself down through a tight ravine before dumping itself into a large pool on the other side of the bridge.

Leaning on the bridge rails Man-wonder’s face relaxed into a dreamy childhood look as he said. “It’s almost as if a pterodactyl might come swooping through the canyon at any moment.”


I felt it too—one of those moments when we were swept back in to the beginning ages of this world. Where we were standing just as our earliest ancestors might have (if they’d built a bridge).

Then as we turned to the other side of the bridge, we were rocketed forwarded to a time in our own youth. Summertime and a favorite swimming hole at the local river. Deep pools of emerald-green waters edged in the same blue as the sky. Crystal clear water so cold you gasped but it never stopped you from diving in.

Oh man, the urge to jump off that bridge was almost overwhelming but the thought of Man-Wonder in full panic mode stopped me from throwing a leg over the railing.

Okay, that and age. . .

After I gathered my senses we wandered on and eventually we ended our walk sitting on one of the picnic benches high above the river sharing a triple-layered peanut butter, jam and banana sandwich (he likes jam, I like banana and marriage is all about compromise). We topped our gourmet meal off with a rich slice of Christmas fruit bread.

Some days are just plain lip-smacking good all around eh?

But the day did leave me with a puzzle.

Not from the park, but something I saw at a rest stop on the drive there—three portable toilets sitting in a cozy half-circle. And doesn’t that just beg the question—what do you call a trio of toilets?

A tripod of relief? A package of potties?  A relief of p.p.s?

Man-wonder’s great offering—three shitters.

Note to self—stop asking him what he thinks.

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