When I was seven years old, my family took the all-American road trip from Kansas City to Disneyland in California. My parents loaded up the beige station wagon's luggage rack, piled in all four kids, and we set out west. It was the Sallman's own personal "Manifest Destiny." It was to be a magical trip. They routed the trip carefully, in order to see as many sights and visit as many family and friends as possible.
(NOTE: There are endless amounts of stories and anecdotes that came from this trip. But for the sake of this particular post, I am going to focus on one particular leg of the trip.)
On our way through the the Southwest, we stopped in Phoenix to visit my dad's friend and his family. It became a bit of a pit stop for us, and it was a welcome change from sleeping in the back of the station wagon or on the ground at some random roadside campsite. And the family was very hospitable to the large number that was invading their home.
During our stay, the patriarch of the house invited us out to a nearby forest to explore some local caves. I remember being excited, as I had just begun a rock collection and knew I could round up some interesting additions to my newly formed habit. We crawled in through a tight opening and once in we were able to stand and explore. It was very exciting for a seven year old. But the cold air, and the road trip food and walking around apparently hit me all at once. As we exited the cave, the rest of the group went to start a fire and prepare a meal for the night. I, however, needed to find a clear place to squat to relieve the agony that was brewing inside of me.
I grabbed my dad and asked "Where should I go poop?"
"Oh, well, come here," he proudly proclaimed. We trekked up the wooded hill about twenty yards and found a tree that forked low to the ground. As we approached the tree, he found a smooth, long, flat rock and wedged it in tree's fork. "There," he gleamed. "Just drop 'trou' and sit on the rock like it's a bench and hang your butt off the other side," and continued down the hill again.
Now, remember, I'm seven when this happening. I have reached the age where there is actually shame. Until age six, little boys have no problem using anything as a personal toilet. Why, just the day, I saw a little kid get out of a car in a parking lot and pee on a light post that was on the main aisle of the shopping center. He just smiled and waived at all the honking cars. His mom came out of the store just as he was finishing, screaming "What the hell is the matter with you?!?" But after age six, we begin to process what is acceptable or not, and are easily embarrassed when we are caught doing these things in public.
I began studying the rock. I pushed on it to make sure it wouldn't fall. I checked the angle of the tree to ensure that no dropping could fall onto me or my clothes. I even licked my finger and tested the direction and speed of the wind to make sure that I didn't catch any back splash. After playing every scenario of embarrassment through my head, I took a deep breath, pulled my pants down and hoisted myself onto the rock. A cringe of terror took hold of me for a second as the rock settled into place under the weight of my 65 pound frame. But then, to my amazement, I began taking care of business. The realization of the phrase "nature's call" rushed over me as I felt like one with the wild...A caveman. A undomesticated, feral beast. I almost began howling in delight with my small white butt hanging off a limestone rock...
...Until, it became abundantly clear that I had completely missed one big calculation in my "preventative checks." I had been so careful to make sure that I wouldn't fall into or soil myself or clothes with my own waste that I overlooked one major embarrassment factor. But before I had a chance to correct it, it was too late. I heard the loud voice from the campsite below.
"TURN AROUND! NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THAT!"
But, alas, I couldn't turn around. No seven year old has the ability to pinch and stand and turn around...
And THAT is the most embarrassing story from my childhood.
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