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Show 214 Red Ditty Bag I am holding two ditty bags in my hand, one red, one white. I choose the red one and put the white one back on the shelf. Red is more obvious, more readily seen. More alarming. It does not matter that it should, for accuracy, be white. I have not been in a camping supply store for years. I rarely go into any store anymore. On my way to the register, I pass under the backpacks, looking like giant colorful bats, hanging on long hooks from the ceiling. Guiding Rex to pull me past the hiking boots on their shelves, I inhale the sweetness of their new leather. Camping stores, by their very nature, do not think to be wheelchair accessible, and as I navigate our way between the tight racks of warm winter parkas and down vests, I wish I could simply remain forever in this store, cocooned in this warmth, these smells, these colors. Maybe I could bring my family in at closing and we would sleep our nights in the display tents, bundled in fluffy down sleeping bags. I would dream of adventures in the wilderness. I thump the ditty bag up onto the counter and hope the young clerk will look me in the eye as I conduct my business. There is a bad joke among people who use wheelchairs - it seems that society subtracts at least ten points off your IQ for your just sitting in one. |