Emptying my notebook of Warriors, chicken sandwiches, 'extraordinary'

Sports, television, word definitions and more are here as I conduct my semiannual cleaning out of my metaphorical reporter's notebook.

(Bonus points for including semiannual and metaphorical in the same sentence.)

On to the topics du jour . . .

• The Golden State Warriors were historically great from 2015 through 2019 – winning three championships and posting the greatest five-year record in NBA history.

This year, they're historically bad.

The combination is (no surprise) historic.

If you're not a sports fan, you only need to know this: the Bay Area's NBA team is doing something that has never been done in the history of major professional American sports.

The Warriors are morphing from the greatest team of their era to the worst team in the league – with no time between the eras. Nobody's done that so quickly.

If you're familiar with the Warriors' season, it's reasonable. They lost one of their greatest players (Kevin Durant) to free agency and then suffered an unbelievable run of injuries to all their top players. By the sixth game of the season, they were reduced to playing whomever was available – a patchwork of rejects, journeymen and rookies. They are terrible, but they're still the Warriors.

This is like if the Beatles didn't break up, but merely lost John Lennon – and then put out an album that included covers of "Billy Don't Be a Hero," "The Night Chicago Died" and "Honey," with studio musicians filling in.

This is unprecedented.

• Mrs. Brad and I have special powers while watching TV shows or movies: I can tell when someone is left-handed and she can tell when someone is lifting something that is empty.

We'll be watching a show and I'll blurt out "lefty!" as someone eats or signs something. She'll say "there's nothing in that box" or "that cup is empty" when an actor lifts something.

If someone were listening in, our discussions would make no sense. Our special powers don't really help the world, but they are gifts nonetheless.

• Speaking of TV, I'm irrationally irritated by the commercial (for Amazon Echo?) where the man is driving to work at a hospital and speaking into a device to get his home ready for his wife.

It shows that he much he cares and how he uses technology to give her a warm welcome. All I see is a guy setting the home thermostat at 71 degrees. Does anyone set their temperature at 71 degrees. Don't we all choose even numbers for temperatures?

Maybe not. Maybe I am obsessive-compulsive about this and have rules that no one else knows exists. All I know is that I've never heard anyone say they want it to be 71 degrees.

• I'm no food snob, but I still can't understand why people have lost their minds about the chicken sandwiches from Popeye's. It's a fast-food chicken sandwich.

If and when we find out the outcry for the sandwiches was just a prank pulled by Popeye's marketing folks, I'll be unsurprised.

The other possibility, of course, is that we are all really dumb.

• My friend Mark makes a good point about the word "extraordinary." Shouldn't it mean that something is extremely ordinary? Should extraordinary be a word you use to explain that something was very bland and everything went as expected? "My day was extraordinary. Nothing surprising happened."

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

A plea for the life of germs, our smallest pets

Today I speak for those who can't. Because they have no mouths and are one-cell creatures.

And they're gross.

I speak for germs – bacteria, viruses, fungi or protozoa. Their lives matter and we treat them badly, compared to other living things.

When  historians look back at this era in the world, there will be plenty of trends: climate change, population growth and the explosion of technology. But they'll also see that many of us – and I'm speaking to you, person who rubs their hands with Purell five times a day – participated in an annihilation of our smallest allies, the germs.

Our homes are filled with germ- and bacteria-killing products, from counter wipes to hand sanitizer to fabric sanitizer to germ-killing lights. It's on our minds constantly: When I use the restroom in my office building, I routinely see young men use paper towels to avoid touching the door as to avoid germs. I only presume those same men use all kinds of germ-killing agents.

Are we killing our tiny allies?

Let's first address the value of germs. Germs make our digestive system work, prevent infections, break down trash and make up antibiotics. (I'm not a scientist, so some of these "facts" may be wrong.)

When you need garbage to break down, germs step and and do the work. When you need to digest food, germs take the lead.

Yet germs are shunned. They do important work, but nobody appreciates them until they see something bad. Germs are the offensive linemen of the natural world.

But should we save germs regardless of their value? Why are they singled out for death?

Consider dogs and cats. How would you feel if someone began selling a product that claimed it killed 100 percent of dogs? You'd be outraged. Of cats? You'd be flummoxed.

But our stores are filled with products that promise to kill germs.

What are germs if not our smallest pets? The difference between a germ and a dog is only several trillion cells. (Plus the ability to bark, the need for food and a loyalty that's better than any person.) Like a dog, germs protect us and can turn on us.

The sad thing is that germs can't speak to defend themselves because they lack a brain, mouth and the platform from which to do it. And they're too busy doing their job, which is making the Earth habitable for us.

Two generations ago, the idea of animal rights and of bringing a dog to a restaurant were outrageous, but now they're normal. Consider how history will judge you if you consider this slaughter of germs. What will you say when your great-great grandchild asks you what you were doing while germs were being slaughtered routinely?

Germs aren't our enemies, they're our smallest allies.

And I'm writing this while preparing to wash my hands and go to the doctor's office, hoping my cold is just a virus.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

The secret war between paper napkins, paper towels

I  am killing an industry. So, maybe, are you.

And millennials? They are definitely responsible. Because of course they are.

It's paper napkins.

The industry is in a decades-long decline, dropping from a  solid 60 percent of American homes that used paper napkins daily two decades ago to barely 40 percent that do so now.

What's behind the decline? A love for the environment? A return of the cloth napkin industry? Sloppiness?

Nope. It's the versatile paper towel. And millennials, of course.

Since we blame them for everything that's dying (department stores, bar soap, golf, handshakes, movies, baseball), let's add paper napkins to the list.

According to a report from a company that studies such things, only 37 percent of 25- to 34-year-olds use paper napkins daily, compared to 61 percent of those 65 and older.

These kids and their social media and rideshare services and streaming videos and paper towels!

The challenge is to recapture the youth market. Time to make paper napkins cool again . . . assuming they were cool at some point.

An article on the paper napkin crisis in Vox reveals that paper napkins haven't always been popular.

There was, of course, initial resistance to paper napkins around 1900 because people were used to reusable, cloth napkins (although I presume coal miners and dirt farmers didn't use cloth napkins daily). Within the century, though, paper napkins revolutionized the world – particularly as fast food restaurants evolved. Soon, we were all using them. We bought big packages of them. We grabbed extras at McDonald's to use at our homes.

Twenty years ago, times changed. Reports emerged of the environmental dangers of paper napkins (which seems weird. They're paper, which is recyclable, right?), but the biggest challenge was the rise of paper towels.

Paper towels: The secret rival of napkins, because paper towels are the Swiss Army knife of kitchen cleaning products. You can use a paper towel to clean up a mess on the floor, wipe the counter top, function as a napkin and even serve as an emergency recipient of a nose blow. Paper towels are the rival to paper napkins.

This is like finding out that the ultra soft and ultra strong toilet paper types are rivals, not partners. Right? I thought paper napkins and paper towels were friends!

The market share for paper napkins declined as paper towels increased. Manufacturers of paper napkins attacked it the only way it could, by emphasizing that you can use their products as paper towels, too. Some products began to be advertised as napkins that are also paper towels.

It's the equivalent of McDonald's addressing a challenge by Taco Bell by launching a line of tacos and chalupas.

The paper towel response? To emphasize its napkin-like utility. This is war!

Except . . .

Except . . .

What we thought at the start is true. What seems like competition among brands is really competition among companies owned by the same corporate masters. Most napkin companies are owned by companies that own paper towel outlets. And vice versa.

So while the paper napkin continues to lose market share, it's losing market share to a cousin company in its massive conglomerate. Turns out the death of paper napkins will just result in the transfer of all the folks in the paper napkin division over to the paper towel division.

It's a mess, but not one big enough that you need super-absorbent paper towels to clean. Or a napkin that doubles as a paper towel.

I still blame millennials.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Life lessons from wildfires, power outages

Aldous Huxley, the British philosopher and author who wrote "Brave New World," once wrote, "Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him.”

There are lessons to be learned from everything – including the recent wildfires and power outages.

So set aside your anger, anxiety and frustration with PG&E to consider lessons from the past few weeks of uncertainty. To be clear, these lessons aren't necessarily for those who lost their homes or who genuinely suffered during the power outages, although they still apply. This is for the rest of us, who lived with the irritation of threatened power outages and watched as our Northern California neighbors endured wildfires.

Three life lessons.

1. The waiting is the hardest part.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were right when they sang that ode in 1981.

First, think about this:  How stressful is a power outage? For those of us 40 or older, power outages were part of our childhood. Somebody would drive into a power pole and the power went out. A wind or rain storm hit and the power went out. A transformer blow up and the power went out.

We would wait a few hours, it came back on and we were fine.

Of course, we didn't have mobile phones and eight streaming services to watch, but still, compare that to the reaction to PG&E's planned outages.

An announcement would be made and there would be serious anxiety, bordering on panic. The power will go out at 7 p.m.! Wait, it's moved back to 9 p.m.! Wait, it didn't go out, but now it may go out in three days!

And we hyperventilate.

The anxiety isn't caused by the outages, it's caused by us waiting for the outages. We've become like Florida, where they are warned of hurricanes several days ahead, allowing the anxiety to build before the path changes and the state is spared. Until it's not.

Life lesson: Most things we worry about don't happen. And if they happen, worrying probably made it worse.

2. Weather happens as "events."

Remember when we used to have rainy days and windy days? Now we have"atmospheric rivers" that cause "rain events." Windy days are "wind events."

PG&E created a whole new vocabulary, describing weather systems with anticipated 40 mph winds as "wind events." By that standard, Fairfield-Suisun City has nonstop "wind events" every spring and early summer. (Marketing idea: Fairfield-Suisun City should begin to advertise itself as the "wind event capital of the West Coast" and sell tickets to see the windy days, since they're now events.)

Life lesson: Just when you think language is dumb, it gets worse.

3. Don't defer maintenance.

This is the most important lesson, because if there's  a common reaction to the PG&E outages, it's outrage over the fact that the company allowed utility lines to reach such a poor state that massive power outages are the only way to prevent equally massive wildfires.

We rail against it: "It's ridiculous! PG&E knew that it needed to maintain its lines, but didn't do anything!" we shout, while driving cars that are 2,000 miles past when the oil should be changed, eating fast food and planning to start exercising in a year or two, right after we finally make that appointment to finally see the dentist. "How stupid are they to ignore basic maintenance?" Then we return to jobs where we don't save for retirement and buy things on Amazon with money we don't have.

Life lesson: Don't be PG&E. Do the hard stuff now that will pay off later – even if the "payoff" is merely the avoidance of disaster.

Learn from Huxley: Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Google solves hard math problem, ignores important ones

Like that brown-nosed braniac who sat behind you in high school, Google is at it again.

This time, the tech giant is claiming a breakthrough in quantum computing – which is presumably similar to "Quantum Leap," the early 1990s Scott Bakula TV show that I never watched. Anyhow, Google says a quantum computer processor completed a complex math problem in 200 seconds, a task that it says would take the world's fastest supercomputer 10,000 years to complete.

Google is probably lying and is definitely wasting money.

First, the lie: Google's claim that the math problem would take 10,000 years for a supercomputer to solve.

That seems like a wild guess. How does Google know it would take 10,000 years? Did someone time travel to the year 12019 and check? In the song "In the Year 2525," history goes no further than 9595, so I call baloney.

Secondly, what part of supercomputer doesn't Google understand?

Regardless, the "it would take 10,000 years" claim sounds like an overstatement, much like when compact discs arrived and we were told they would never wear out. Within about 18 months, that was proven wrong.

Google is lying.

The second issue with this claim is more basic. Why is Google spending time solving some complex math problem when we could all use a little help with Google solving basic math problems that we face every day?

Google is supposed to be practical, so quit showing off and help us with basic math.

Want examples? Here are a couple math problems that I want Google to use that quantum computer processor to solve for me:

How much do  I need for retirement? I can ask my money guy, Leon, but even Leon doesn't know how long I'll live (unless Leon is plotting to kill me, which seems unlikely). And he can't guarantee what expenses I'll encounter.

I suspect I'm not alone in being nervous about future spending because of questions. If Google can solve a problem that would take a supercomputer 100 centuries to solve, it should be able to give me a bottom-line number, so I can make sure I run out of air and money at the same time.

What's the best deal on toilet paper? This is crucial. It was always a bit dicey, because of the complication of multi-ply toilet tissue, but in recent years, it's gotten harder.

Go to a store and you have the option of buying toilet paper in four-, six-, 12-, 48- and 54-roll packs, all with multiple options for thickness. Is it a better deal to get one four-ply, 48-roll pack or eight one-ply, 12-roll packs? And why does it jump from 48 rolls to 54? Shouldn't it be to 96 rolls? And if I get 96 rolls of toilet paper, how should I stack them?

Google should answer that. Presumably, there are other "math" solutions that could help us.

So congratulations to Google for solving a problem that none of us realized existed, then making up how long it would take other computers to solve it.

By the way, did anyone check Google's math? If it would take 10,000 years for a supercomputer to solve the problem, how do we even know the answer is correct?

I'll Ask Jeeves.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Science says sunny outlook increases lifespan

I knew this would be true!

A study posted in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences says that optimistic people live longer than pessimists.

Great news, right? Presumably, it also means our extra years will be great, too! Sunshine and unicorns, as I always say.

Scientists combined data from two long-term studies over decades and found that the most optimistic women live about 15 percent longer than their pessimistic colleagues, while optimistic men live about 11 percent longer than pessimists (As an optimist, I choose to believe the fact that I enjoy "The Bachelor" on TV means I'll have an advantage closer to that of women).

Those increases came after taking into consideration other issues, such as exercise, diet and demographic information.

Of course, you could choose to look at this the other way: Pessimists are right when they presume they'll die earlier.

Doesn't matter, though. Join me in walking down the street, hands in my pockets, whistling and saying hello to everyone. It is, as the Brady Bunch once sang, a Sunshine Day!

Some would say optimism is an inherited trait. Maybe it is, since most of us have B-positive blood type. Get it? The fact that I wrote that and expected a reaction kind of proves that I'm optimistic, right?

As an aging optimist, there was more good news: Optimistic women are 1.5 times more likely to make it to 85 than pessimists and optimistic men are 1.7 times more likely.

Scientists didn't just leave it at the age span. They explained why optimists have an advantage: We (and I include myself because I feel confident that I'll be in the group, which is a circular argument, but don't bet against me) are more likely to have healthy behaviors such as exercise and good diet, while avoiding unhealthy habits. We also handle stress better, because we assume it will be OK.

Which reminded me of the old story of an optimist and a pessimist falling off a 100-story building. As the pessimist fell, he screamed and cursed. As the optimist fell, he whispered, "so far, so good!"

As someone who has been identified as an optimist from a young age (my good friend and colleague Ted Sillanpaa used to insist that if I played baseball, my walk-up music would be "Walking on Sunshine," by Katrina and the Waves), this is a study to embrace. As a longtime Type 1 diabetic, there are plenty of studies about a shorter life span, but I of course figure they don't apply to me. This does!

Because I'm walking on sunshine, wow! I'm walking on sunshine! And don't it feel good?

There are two conclusions from this study:

• If you're an optimist like me, things look good.
• If you're a pessimist, don't worry. I'm sure it will be fine!

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

An earthquake, a World Series, 30 years of memories

I didn't even feel it. I heard it, but I didn't feel the second-biggest earthquake to hit Northern California in the past century.

Thirty years ago this week – at 5:04 p.m. Oct. 17, 1989 – the Loma Prieta earthquake hit the Bay Area, killing 63 people and causing $6 billion of damage. It measured 6.9 on the Richter scale, making it one of the 13 biggest earthquakes in recorded state history. Tony Wade wrote two "Back in the Day" columns with local residents' remembrances and this is mine.

I was a young sports editor, covering Game 3 of the World Series between the San Francisco Giants and Oakland A's at Candlestick Park. I didn't feel the earthquake.

I was covering the game with Steve Trosky, another Daily Republic sports writer, and was walking down the stairs below the press box from our seats. I heard the rumble and smiled. "These fans are great. They're stomping their feet," I thought.

Steve saw me walking. He saw the televisions that were on plywood platforms above poles so the media could see replays. The TVs swayed over my head as I walked down the stairs like Mr. Magoo, thinking the fans were stomping their feet.

The fans, drunk on excitement for the first World Series game in San Francisco since 1962, cheered the earthquake. What more appropriate thing for a Bay Area World Series?

Before long, it was obvious that something was wrong. Radio stations came back online and reporters and fans began hearing early reports and rumors. The Bay Bridge collapsed. The Marina district was on fire. Buildings were in shambles. Santa Cruz was in ruins.

Some of the early reports were true. Most had some element of truth. Pretty soon it became apparent this was a disaster and bigger than baseball.

As a reporter, it was a free-for-all. Security broke down and reporters were allowed to roam.

I asked the baseball commissioner a question. I asked the head of the Baseball Writers Association of America about the history of such disasters (since there was no Internet yet). I talked to players who were huddled on the field with their families and who didn't want to talk to a small-town sports writer.

Steve was working, too, although he was concerned. His father commuted across the Bay Bridge every day. Was the bridge in the water? Ultimately, TV stations came back on and we saw images. The bridge was damaged, not collapsed. The Marina was indeed burning. The horror of the collapse of the Cypress structure in Oakland was obvious.

Steve and I headed south to my sister's house in South San Francisco, from where we filed our articles on cheap old-school Radio Shack TRS-80 computers (affectionately called "trash-80s"), then called the Daily Republic newsroom, somehow got through and made sure they received them.

We drove home the only way we could – through Golden Gate Park and across the Golden Gate Bridge, since the other bridges were closed and power was out. People were gracious and generous, some directing traffic with flashlights.

It took about three hours to get home, but ultimately we did.

We were really observers to history. We weren't hurt, we lived in Fairfield and Suisun City, so we suffered no damage. Steve and I really just had a chance to see a historic sporting event and then somehow manage to do our jobs and file our articles.

Ten days later, I was back at Candlestick when the series resumed and the A's quickly finished off a sweep. The Bay Bridge was still closed, so it was still a hassle to get there, but I wasn't going to miss it.

After all, it was still the first Giants World Series home game since 1962.

There you have it. I was at ground zero of the thing that most people around the nation associate the the Loma Prieta earthquake. And when it happened, I thought it was fans stomping their feet.

That's me, genius reporter.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Time traveler continues his visit from 1985

Last week in this column: Brad encountered a younger version of himself (one who said "awesome" and "sweet" a lot) in his workplace garage and, after they recognized each other, the pair discussed new technology, his marriage and how relationships have changed since 1985. We now resume, since time-travel encounters with a younger version of yourself are too much for one column.

I was in my Toyota Prius, driving around an early 20s version of myself and explaining how the world has changed. And remained the same.

"So you're telling me the Giants win three World Series?" the younger me asked, wide-eyed.

"Yeah. Three in five years. But it came after some heartbreaking seasons."

"As long as they win, I don't care. Like the Los Angeles Raiders: Just win, baby!"

I nodded, not wanting to explain what happened to the Raiders.

"So this social media thing you mentioned. What is it?" he asked.

I tried to explain, telling him it was a way for people to keep in touch and share news with immediacy. News was often shared via social media.

"So people can now find out immediately who is drafted by an NBA team ?" he asked.

"Yeah. I guess that's one way."

"Hmm. That's why I took a newspaper job: So I could see stuff come over the wire. That's the most awesome part of the job."

That didn't surprise me. I remembered the wonder of following the 1984 NBA draft by reading Associated Press bulletins at the newspaper office while I was a part-time sports writer.

"So is there a downside to the social media? Anything people don't like?"

I explained over-sharing, online bullying and privacy breaches. But I told him most people still participate.

"I don't see what the big deal is about privacy breaches. Who cares if they know where you bank? You still have to go in the bank and get money," younger me said. "And if I had a password, it would be Caribbean. It would be like that M*A*S*H* episode, where someone said 'Care-uh-BEE-un,' and the other person said, "I thought it was 'Care-RIB-ee-un." That was sweet. . . .  I'd do social media if I could follow the NBA draft."

I also told him about YouTube.

"Seriously? You can watch music videos on a phone? That's crazy. Bad news for MTV, right?"

I couldn't even begin to explain it.

When I showed him how texting worked, he immediately wanted to send a text.

"Mister Gower cabled you need cash. STOP," he started, mimicking the telegram at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life." I laughed and told him he'd still be using that gag 35 years in the future. Because it's still funny.

"So we have all this technology, people take pictures and listen to music on their phones, couples now demand that their wedding party pay to be part of the wedding, right?" he asked. "There's one main thing I want to know, though."

Did he want to know whether Mrs. Brad and I had kids? Whether he ever covered professional sports? In what town he would live? Whether diabetes cost him any limbs? (That got dark quickly!)

It was none of those.

"Did the USFL make it?" he asked, referencing the upstart league that challenged the NFL.

"Nope. It faded away pretty quickly."

He smiled and nodded.

"Well, that's good. That probably wrapped up the 15 minutes of fame for that obnoxious guy who owns the New Jersey Generals. That Trump guy."

I couldn't bear to tell him.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

A time-traveling encounter shows how things have changed

It started, as these things usually do, unexpectedly.

I was walking across the garage to my car after work and suddenly he was  next to me. A younger me, from 1985, the year I married Mrs. Brad.

I was startled, but didn't want to scare myself.

"What was that?" the younger me asked.

"What?"

"Did that car beep at you?"

"It's unlocked," I told me. "Because of the key fob."

The younger me was befuddled. By my Toyota Prius, by the word "fob," by the fact that I look like an old man. He apparently knew he was seeing a future version of himself.

"What year is it?" the younger me asked, speeding up the process of getting to the point of this column.

"It's 2019."

The younger me continued to get to the point, since I only have about 600 words in a column. He said he bumped his head that morning and woke up in my office building, confounded by the people around him. He saw me and thought I was his father, then realized I was the future him.

He began walking next to me.

"Can I give you a ride somewhere?" I asked. I knew he lived hundreds of miles north with the younger Mrs. Brad. I remembered that part of life.

"Let's just ride around in this spaceship," he said, laughing. "This is awesome."

The younger version of me said awesome a lot. He looked at my phone as we began driving.

"What's that?"

"It's Waze. It helps with directions."

"Like a map?"

"Yeah."

Then I started a music app, which played through my car's system.

"Your Waze plays music, too? Sweet." The younger me said "sweet" a lot.

He sang along with "One Night in Bangkok," ("I get my kicks above the waistline, Sunshine!") as I explained smartphones to him, told him we can now take phones with us, that long-distance calls are free and tried to explain the concept of texting. And yes, I had "One Night in Bangkok" playing on my phone.

We began talking about changes. He was fascinated. About streaming services and that few people bought music anymore. About the Giants winning three World Series titles. About hybrid cars.

"I'm not sure if I can ask this, but are Mrs. Brad and I still married?" he asked. He didn't call her Mrs. Brad yet–that column bit started about 15 years into his future–but let's go with that.

"Yeah. You're still . . . we're still married. Happily. I think."

We both laughed and he said, "sweet," because I said that in 1985.

"Well, I bet one thing never changes," he said. "Relationships, right? (Mrs. Brad) and I just got married and that's probably pretty much the same."

"Well, kind of, although that's different."

I told the younger me about the increase in "destination weddings" and that bachelor and bachelorette parties are now frequently get-away, expensive events.

"Wait. You go out of town? That's seems crazy," he said. "Mine was one night with my friends. In town."

That's not all, I told him. People now have "babymoons," before their first child and "baby sprinkles" to get gifts for their second child. They  choreograph dances at weddings and post videos of them on social media.

"Social media?" he asked. "What's social media?"

There was much more to discuss, so I told him the column was done and we'd finish the discussion next week.

"Sweet. I love cliffhangers," he said. "Like 'Who killed J.R.' on Dallas. Awesome."

There was more to talk about, which you will see next week.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.

Vacation without people teaches important lessons

Mrs. Brad and I recently got a taste of what post-apocalyptic life would be like . . . presuming there are no zombies nor nuclear waste and there's still plenty of food.

We got to see how it is to live without other people.

Our annual September vacation now has a familiar flow. We tent camp for a couple of days to accelerate the decompression from regular life. Then we head to a cabin or hotel with showers, a kitchen, beds, a TV and Wi-Fi for the rest of the week. We do it after Labor Day, to avoid traffic.

This time, we also avoided people.

Our camping was done at Lake Siskiyous, across from Mount Shasta along Interstate 5. The campground is huge, with more than 300 sites . . . but we appeared to be the only tent campers there.

We camped for two weekdays. In mid-September, after school started. There were several people in recreational vehicles, but they were in their own part of the campground.

Where we pitched our tent, there were no people. Dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens of empty sites, no people. We had to walk a half-mile to see evidence of humanity.

It was great. Silent, peaceful. We did our regular camping-vacation activities: Hiking and reading. And reading. And resting. And reading.

The peace was fantastic, except . . . on Tuesday, I put my book on my lap, laid my head back and took a quick nap. I felt something on my lap, awakened slightly and . . . saw a squirrel. On my leg. Looking at me.

Wild animals of any type scare me, so I flailed my arms, gasped and the squirrel ran off.

I stopped napping.

After two days, we headed to a cabin near a small body of water called Hyatt Reservoir, about 20 miles east of Ashland, Ore.

There was a cluster of about 20 cabins and one other home had a vehicle in front of it, but we never saw people. We were the only ones there. For three days, the only people we saw was when we drove to one of the two nearby restaurants and saw two or three people.

Otherwise? Us and birds and chipmunks. (After my experience with the squirrel, I was hesitant to relax too much around the chipmunks.)

We hiked most of the way around the reservoir. No people, despite another big campground.

We sat on our deck and watched the sky. No people.

We read our books at the water's edge. No people.

It was refreshing. You could hear  the wind whispering through the trees and the sound of birds' wings flapping as they flew over. No traffic sounds. No sirens. No loud neighbors.

You could get used to this . . . except I couldn't.

By Day 4, I was restless. I wanted to do something. I realized I wanted to be around people and when I asked Mrs. Brad, much more of an introvert than me, she felt the same.

It's peaceful and necessary for us to get away. It's wonderful to be in nature. It's great to be able to read and rest and read and hike and rest.

But we're not ready for life in a remote wilderness – even if the squirrels leave us alone.

A week without people was enough.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.