Bathed in Controversy

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on December 1, 2011, and in the Fairfield Sun on December 8, 2011, both in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.) Some say bath towels, like milk, have an expiration date. Regardless of race, creed, or nationality, there are really only two kinds of people in this world: Those who change bath towels after every shower, and those who don’t. Towels matter. Because we use them while we are most exposed, this decision speaks to who we really are. If you don’t believe me, ask around. I had a friend in high school that recoiled in horror when I shared that my family only switched towels once a week. “That’s disgusting—how can you dry yourself with a dirty towel?” In his eyes, it was as if I was drying myself with a used diaper, but my mother was washing laundry for nine people each week. Unless a root system was actively growing on the towel, we used it. The Turks, who first popularized today’s bath towel in the 18th century, never had to deal with this: They bathed weekly at best.  I was once a Turk myself, spending most of my pre-teenage years trying to convince my mom of the wisdom of minimal bathing. Alas, she clung stubbornly to the Western tradition of bathing several times a week. Each of her kids was assigned a worn bath towel, large enough to do the job but small enough to be useless as a cape. We would toss them in the hamper each weekend and grab another, usually while soaking wet. There were inherent flaws in this system, of course. As anyone with brothers can attest, teenage boys are required to wipe any number of unspeakable things on their younger brother’s bath towel. Whether you need to stem the blood from a shaving cut, cover a sneeze, or wipe the excess oil off your bike chain, a little brother’s towel does it all. It only gets worse at summer camp or college—without a blood bond, things are wiped on towels that would curl the toes of even the most experienced portable toilet cleaner. Small wonder that some won’t trust a towel that doesn’t come right out of the wash. Believers in the “All Need Antiseptic Linen” school of thought (I wish I could think of a good acronym for this) therefore insist that towels are automatically “unclean” after one use. However, the “Did I Replace Towels Yesterday?” school of thought (I know—I need an acronym, but what?) seems to be gaining momentum. Even hotels, once a playground stocked with innumerable clean towels, are beginning to embrace my mom’s philosophy. Bathroom cards read, “Save our planet: Every day, countless gallons of water are used to wash towels that have only been used once. A towel on the rack means, 'I will use again.' A towel on the floor means, 'Please replace.' Thank your for helping us conserve the Earth's vital resources." While trying to guilt us into helping them…

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The Winter Sword of Damocles

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on February 2, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) The news that the first day of April vacation has already been lost due to the recent snow cancellations reminded me of a story my brother once told me after several consecutive snow days when we were kids. As I celebrated the latest cancellation, he told me we have to be careful what we wish for because sometimes it comes back to haunt us. “You think you want it now,” he said, “until you realize you have the Sword of Damocles over your head.” I’m pretty sure that’s when I threw the pillow at him that scratched his cornea, but I could be wrong. Regardless, I listened without enthusiasm while he exacted his revenge by ruining snow days for me forever. Damocles was a courtier in the court of King Dionysius II of ancient Italy and one of history’s original suck-ups. He flattered the king constantly, raving about his good fortune, his power, and his greatness. Eventually, the king grew tired of this and asked Damocles if he’d like to switch places to sample that good fortune for himself. Damocles quickly agreed and was soon seated on the throne, surrounded by every luxury that the king enjoyed. However, King Dionysius had arranged for a large sword to be hung directly over the throne, held aloft by nothing but a single hair of a horse’s tail. Daunted by the prospect of the blade looming so precariously over his head, Damocles begged the king to release him from this “good fortune.”  As a kid, I never made the connection that my brother had hoped. I looked forward to a snow day like some look forward to Christmas morning or a parole date. There was no greater joy than hearing my mom trek down the hallway to sigh, “There’s no school today because of the snow.” I’d switch on the radio to WICC and listen to the parade of school districts cancelling classes, imagining what wondrous things I could do for the rest of the day. If it were only a delayed opening, I would listen to the roll call coming from my radio speakers and pray that nearby districts had changed from a delay to a closing. I learned more about Connecticut geography by calculating the distance between the surrounding towns and my house than I ever learned in school. “If Bridgeport is closing, and Trumbull is closing, and Westport is closing, then surely it’s only a matter of time…” It was even worse if a storm was predicted the night before. I would scour the local stations for weather reports, hoping each snowfall would not start too late (after five in the morning) nor end too soon (after one or two in the afternoon) to merit a snow day. My dad always scoffed at how I crouched before the small TV set, waiting for the weatherman to appear. “They make more money in advertising money when they threaten…

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