It's amazing how good toast smells when it isn't yours

squal·or (skwlr)
n.

A filthy and wretched condition or quality.

[Latin squlor, from squlre, to be filthy. See squalid.]

I saw squalor again yesterday morning. It looked just like I remembered it. Oddly happy but sad all the same. Being a fairly pensive person for the better part of my life I was aware of squalor and was at that time ashamed of it. I am no longer ashamed that I grew up poor. I realize now I had nothing to do with it and there was no way I could change it. Seeing it again made me remember the good times that squalor brought me.

Little pleasures were big ones. Every smile was a rainbow, everything that went right was a conquest. Every tree in the orchard was my friend and I understood animals and they understood me. My wife refers to my stories of this time in my life as my "Pennsylvania walked to school uphill both ways in the snow" stories and I understand that. They are not by any means believable. For example, the year Star Wars hit the theaters and Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind I was living without electricity, running water, or indoor plumbing. Baths were in a wash tub, like you'd see on the Waltons. The water was heated atop a wood stove and the water was drawn from a well with a bucket. Meals were cooked over a wood cook stove. We were dirty kids. Having to draw one's own bath water from a well in the back yard was not much fun and it certainly didn't happen every day. We had horses, a pig, a cow, and each other. We spent much time shovelling manure. Life was filled with hard work and I only had to do a minute amount of what everyone else was expected to do since I was the youngest and quite small.

I understood our position. All of our neighbors had electricity, water, all of that stuff. All of the kids at school had it too.

This is where my love of bicycles was born. I could get on my bicycle and ride far away where it was just me on my bicycle and no baggage of what I did or didn't have at home. It was the freedom from squalor and the adventure of a little boy. Every bike ride was an epic in my mind with big dreams of going even farther than I had gone on the last ride. Every return trip was a coming home of the victor who had gone forth and explored the world.

To each his own but I wouldn't trade my memories of squalor for anything. Just because we didn't have much doesn't mean we weren't happy. I hope the squalor I saw was as happy as I was.

everyone should work at a porn store

For the first time since my days of squalor and hiding from the man ( ~ 1995 ) I do not have cable, satellite, or any other manner of watching television other than the local news through the rabbit ears.

I miss it not. The wife is beginning to twitch uncontrollably though.

Yeah, I really lived a life of hiding for a while. Let's just say my manner of paying for college was unconventional and considered somewhat less than legal. Damn the man. The man, we'll call him the DEA, showed up at my door. He (while it was really a they) mentioned that someone smelled an illegal (non-harmful) substance coming from my room. I invited them in and went so far as to put the concealed substance in their hands (of course it was inside the container I handed them.) They did not want to search what I handed them so off they went empty handed.

Yes folks, I not only have brass balls but I was as stupid of a person as has ever walked the earth. But it bought me one more day of freedom.

The next day we decided to head to another room for the evening festivities (on another floor.)

Guess who knocked?

Guess who left college that night? Guess who never went back to his room to retrieve his clothes, books, anything? Yeah, that's me.

Stopped by mom's in the middle of the night, informed her she hadn't seen me, told her I'd explain when I could and no, I hadn't hurt anyone. Headed off for the big city to hide for about a year.

I worked for cash for a year. That was the year I worked at the porn shop. Yes, it was mafia run. They were decent to work for. They paid me well and I kept the shop up. No, I didn't have to do cleanup duty. I just ran the register. I never opened any accounts other than what I had to. I had electric service and gas when I needed it but I didn't get a phone or any other non-essential utilities. I didn't buy a car; I didn't have insurance. I watched my back and rode a bicycle where I needed to go. I knew my routes out of town. I knew the dark corners of the neighborhoods and how to utilize them. I made sure my friends knew not to ask questions if I disappeared. Coworkers were not privy to such info. It was a porn shop and I was working for cash. All they needed to know was I'd be there when I was scheduled.

No, girls didn't come in. Well, every now and then on a Saturday night. I remember one couple came in and wanted me to close the shop so the wife could service me while the husband taped it. No go. I wasn't going to lose my job over a few minutes of good time. They gave me directions to their house. No, I didn't ever show up. I was sexually jaded by that point. It was but an act that many people went through.

I don't think everyone should have to hide from the man but I do think everyone should work at a porn store for about a year. It puts things in perspective.