My RV Blog
As we wander out on the road, I’ll blog about the interesting things I see and hear out here, but not always the usual stuff like where we’ve been or what we’re doing. Sometimes I might write about interesting people or even things that go wrong. Feel free to reach out to me and let me know what you think.
The oldest entries will be at the bottom of the page and the newest entries at the top.
Entry # 12-I Hate to Drive
By the time our adventure was over, we had put over 12,000 miles on our RV, and I had driven every mile of it. My wife, Kathy, doesn’t drive any more, so since we purchased this behemoth a couple of years ago, I have done all the roadwork. This year’s trip took us from our home in the southwest to the northwestern US near the Canadian border, zigzagging across the northern part of the country to the east coast, down the eastern seaboard to Florida and the across the south and back up through Texas and home.
There’s only one problem. I hate to drive. I don’t like the monotony, the traffic, the people. I’m a nervous driver. I don’t know when that happened to me. I used to be reckless or at least non-committal about driving. It was about getting from one place to the next. Fast.
My disdain for driving may have happened when I took on a second job delivering delayed luggage. (“Luggage is never lost, merely delayed,” the company used to tell us.) With that job, I would have to pick up delayed bags from the airport and deliver them to angry passengers who would take their frustrations out on me. Let’s just say, I didn’t get a lot of tips. Or a lot of sleep. Generally, I would start out locally where I would earn a couple of bucks for each bag delivered and as I moved further and further away from town, the amount I earned per bag went up. In my greed, I tended to pack as many bags as I could into the back of my Jeep and drive as far afield as I could go.
Two or three nights a week, I would leave my job at the radio station and head to the airport where I would call angry passengers and promise to get their luggage to them. I’d load up as much luggage aw I could and hit the road, sometimes driving all night before heading back to my regular job.
I might drive to northern New Mexico or as far as Colorado to deliver bags to someone at a ski resort or dude ranch or hunting lodge. Quite often this meant taking narrow, winding mountain roads or heading out into the wilderness for miles on end to some desolate tract of land. Without 4-wheel drive, these places were often inaccessible during the winter months and all the roads were scary as hell. Worst of all, most of the roads I took were unfamiliar to me and so, I never knew what might be around the next corner, the fear of the unknown doubling or tripling in the dark.
These days, I’m driving a 35-foot RV around the country on roads that are narrow and winding and nerve wrecking, you know, just for the scenic view. The irony is that we drive the scenic route so that we can see the oceans, the desert, the mountains as we travel, but I don’t get to see much because I’m so focused on the road ahead and Kathy doesn’t see anything because she is asleep in the back of the RV.
To me, everything is a hazard. The wind might blow me off the road, the rain obscures my vision, and the heat makes me sleepy. My brakes might fail on a steep downhill grade, or I might wander too far off the road and go tumbling into a canyon, never to be heard from again. Thank God for rumble strips that scare me back into the lane.
When traveling, every road is unfamiliar. Nearly every mountain road has signs indicating the presence of wildlife and falling boulders. I imagine myself slamming into an elk while being crushed by a boulder from above. The boulder, of course, sends you over a cliff. There are curves that must be taken at 25 miles per hour or less and there have been one or two times when I wasn’t able to navigate a downhill turn in one go, having to stop, backup and try to make the turn again, the whole time afraid that my foot might slip from the brake and send us tumbling into the canyon, never to be heard from again.
The interstates are not much better. You can tool along at up to 80 miles per hour putting your car on cruise control, but the minute you feel confident enough to do so, a sign warns of some new challenge. While wider and faster and much more level, there is always some sort of construction taking place where the highway is reduced to one lane, and I am forced to drive the RV over a rugged surface between concrete barriers like a freshly launched pinball. Truckers are no help, either. They are impatient and hate being locked in behind a novice driver such as myself, tailgating and waiting for the first opportunity to swerve past me.
Highways through the cities are the worst, with triple the construction and roadways so rough that will give you kidney failure. This go round, our conveyance was shaken to the point where the sink caved in, cabinet drawers slid violently open, and pieces of the furniture began to rattle off their moorings. And drivers in the city don’t seem to realize that I can’t stop the RV as quickly as a car. They continuously swerve into my lane and the brake hard as the traffic comes to a standstill. Traveling through Atlanta, twice large panel trucks came close enough to us to smack my passenger side mirror out of alignment where I could no longer monitor that side of my vehicle. Worse still, there was no place for me to pull over and rectify the situation. Kathy had to come forward and rescue me, thank heaven.
Add to that the resentment of most other drivers of our having what most consider a luxury vehicle and my inability to drive it competently in traffic and you have a lot of angry people flipping me off, cursing at me and even throwing things.
But worst of all is my own poor judgement. It never fails when I am searching for a decent price on fuel that I will discover a much cheaper price just two blocks down the road. When my navigation system suggests a quicker or shorter route, if I take it, it turns out to be a bust or I get lost or the nav system doesn’t realize that I am driving a twelve and a half foot tall nine-foot-wide RV and routes me to a low underpass or narrow bridge. If I ignore the suggestion, I usually end up in standstill traffic.
My total lack of planning is also legendary, not choosing routes based on degree of difficulty or efficiency or just bothering to look at a map. I just press “go” and follow the blue line. Sometimes this means heading into the thick of rush hour traffic rather than taking a bypass route or finding myself navigating a narrow country road in the dark on the way to an RV park.
We bought our RV at the worst possible time, just post COVID when motorhomes were very much in demand. This meant that we overpaid for our RV. Eight years old at the time, the conveyance had about 40k in miles and was eight years old. Now, we are at 60+k and things are failing right and left. Looking online, I’m finding comparable vehicles with less than 15k miles for about two thirds of what we paid for this. Like I said. My instincts are poor.
By the time we’ve reached our destination, my neck and shoulders hurt from gripping the steering wheel so hard and swiveling my head back and forth to make sure I am staying in my lane. My head aches, my mouth is dry, my knees are stiff, and I can’t wait to get the big bus up onto its feet and popped open.
When the subject of getting an RV was first broached by Kathy, I smarmily quipped that we would get one when they came with a driver. Finally, after a number of years she shot back, “We do have a driver. You.” There’s no arguing with that girl.
There is nothing that can change my disdain for driving. Nothing except maybe the way we wander. The miles on the RV this year represent the fashion in which we traveled. “Where to next?” was often the question at the end of the day. We were able to extend our stay at a lake or at the beach or along a river if we weren’t feeling up to traveling. We turned left instead of right in Wisconsin and headed for the upper peninsula of Michigan because we had never been to that part of the world. Until then, I didn’t know that that was where the term “Yooper” came from.
Feeding deer on a Long Island beach. Spotting buffalo and wild donkeys in the Dakotas. Visiting historic places like the Little Big Horn or Mount Rushmore. Chasing my heroes by visiting the childhood home of Bob Dylan in Minnesota where I picked up a piece of solid iron ore or wandering through the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and meeting interesting and weird people. Not something you can do when you fly over this country. I guess if I had to make a trade, I’ll take the road, no matter how much I hate to drive.
Entry #11 Small Town Fun
During our travels, we often stay in smaller communities, out of the way places, rural mostly. Some are adjacent to recreational areas of one sort or another and others are simple farming communities. One of the things that smaller communities have over large towns is the throwback to simpler things. Big cities have big distractions like pro sports teams, large concert venues and major festivals. There’s a wide variety of shopping options, recreation in almost every form and lots of charitable and civic groups. In smaller communities, those things are a couple of hundred miles away.
Rural communities tend to have less traffic and overcrowding and are often more like the place where many of us grew up. During the summers of my youth I worked on farms and ran wild through the fields and there was nothing like it. In places like that, the community centers around places like church, school or organizations like the Boy Scouts, the American Legion, Kiwanis, Optimists and such.
Visiting Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, I had the opportunity to take part in Pure Water Days Parade and Riverfest. A relatively recent event, the town has celebrated its reputation for the pure water that flows from the Chippewa Springs. Former Wisconsin congressman and lieutenant governor Thaddeus Pound believed the city’s spring water had cured him of rheumatism. He founded the Chippewa Springs Health Club in 1889, and a spring house was built along Park Avenue. The Chippewa Springs Co. was formed a few years later to sell the water. Every year, in early August, the main drag of North Bridge Street is closed to traffic and the everyone in town who is not part of the parade lines either side of the parade route. The parade is comprised of civic groups, business owners, youth and civic groups and the occasional Politician. This year, there was a circus theme to the parade.
The parade kicked off with the Chippewa Falls Police Chief in his cruiser and his newest officer, Chip, the town’s first therapy dog. Chip a 12-year-old Labradoodle donated by a local breeder. Chip would be visiting schools, churches and civic groups to help bring the community together and quickly became very popular and so, it was no surprise when Chip was made Grandmaster of the Pure Water Days parade. Chip was followed by the Chippewa Falls Patriotic Council handing out candy to the children along the parade route. One of the council members targeted me saying that “older people shouldn’t be left out.” Thanks, Toots.
There was the Chippewa Falls Youth Hockey Association and the team, the Chippewa Thunder, a local dance troupe and a man dressed as Andy of Mayberry and carrying a Barney Fife puppet on his arm. There was a CrossFit group, the local Lions Club and any number of businesses towing circus themed floats including the local bank, car dealership, realtor and a local brewery that touted the fact that it used only local spring water to make their beer and had been doing so for over a hundred and fifty years.
The local high school marching band, slightly out of tune, marched by. There was a cheer group furiously waving their pom poms and flags, a gymnastic group that tumbled past us with an adorable four-year old bringing up the rear with cartwheels every few moments. There was a man with a dog who had been shaved to look like a lion and someone dressed as a pig towing a wagon for some reason.
There were several local queens and their courts from Chippewa and the surrounding area. There was the North Hudson Pepper Fest Queen, Miss Stanley from the Stanley Chamber of Commerce, Miss Cadott, Miss Baldwin, Miss Hudson, Miss Cumberland and the Northern Wisconsin State Fair Queen.
But the hit of the parade was the Festival Foods hot rod shopping cart, an oversized cart mounted atop a souped-up engine. The cart was ten feet tall ad carried a few circus clowns and some store employees, but nobody really noticed them. Anytime the parade paused, the driver would rev up the engine and the crowed would roar.
Next up were the Shriners and their Mini Model T precision driving team, zipping in circles and crisscrossing to the delight of the crowd. The parade wound up with what looked like any customized or classic car withing a 20-mile radius driving by and also revving their engines. There was an old Model A Ford and a Cadillac Saratoga. There were classic muscle cars, hot rods, custom trucks, convertibles and toward the end, just people who took really good care of their older cars. Almost as soon as it had begun, it was over.
The parade route, a solid six blocks, ended at the local park by the river’s edge. A talented local cover band made up of very young players entertained the crowd with music that was produced in the 80s, long before they were born. There were food and craft booths and hundreds of people milling about. Some of the queens were there, still in their formal dress and clowns still in their makeup.
As I wandered about, I could see people catching up with one another, kids running around, dogs and their people and a few folks dancing to the music. These people could travel a couple of hours to watch the Green Bay Packers or to dine in a fancy restaurant, but this was home. This was where they belonged, and they belonged to each other. Some, no doubt, had never left home while others likely returned here after exploring the world. Others still had decided that this was a safe or comfortable place to live or retire.
This bit of small-town fun was a celebration of this amalgam of the people who lived here. The young and the old, the farmers and business owners and the friends and family from nearby communities. It might be considered quaint for people to still have parades down main street or to celebrate something as seemingly insignificant as the purity of the water, but it is reassuring to know that there are people who love and believe in the things that make the simple life important.
The rest of the world snickers at parade queens, marching bands and the excitement generated by a motorized shopping cart, but there is something genuine and honest about people that believe in each other.
Entry # 10 Randy
We travel with our entire home in this RV. A kitchen with all the amenities like a microwave, refrigerator, stove and sink. There’s a bath and shower. There’s a washer and dryer. Heck, there’s even a fireplace and a couple of TV’s. All this means that we prefer to stay at RV parks that provide full hook-ups; electric, water, sewer and of course, WiFi. Some places are resorts that have swimming pools, pickleball courts, a waterpark or even a golf course. Most are modest providing good level ground to park, showers and restrooms, a laundry, free Wi-Fi and maybe a horseshoe pit and playground.
During the summer months when everyone is traveling, it’s always a good idea to book your stay in advance, but Kathy and I are not book-your-stay-in advance kind of people. We tend to wander. When we hit the road this summer, we completely forgot to take into account that we were leaving just a week prior to the 4th of July holiday. It made finding a place to park a little tough and sometimes, expensive.
The same thing happened when we were traveling from the Little Big Horn National Monument to Mt. Rushmore. We decided to stay in Sturgis a couple of weeks before the big motorcycle rally not realizing that this is a monthlong affair with events happening in many of the surrounding communities.
As we got ready to leave Little Big Horn, I went online and found a friendly sounding place called Suzie’s RV Park and Campground, where the motto is “Come as Strangers. Leave as Friends.” There was no online reservation portal, so I called the number listed.
“Suzies. This is Randy,” a gruff voice answered after the third ring. I must admit, I was sort of expecting to hear Suzie.
“Um….yeah. I was wondering if you might have a spot for me for a couple of nights. We’re at the Little Big Horn and we will probably be arriving late.”
“I don’t know,” Randy continued. I’ve got some people coming in today for rally. Let me look.”
I waited as Randy fumbled around. After a minute or two, he came back on the line.
“Yeah, go ahead and come on in. Just take the first exit as you leave Sturgis, and you’ll see the signs. Park in D-7.”
“Great,” I said, relieved. “Do you need a credit card number?”
“Nah. Just come on in. You can pay me tomorrow. Cash. Credit card. Whatever.”
“Would you like my name?”
“Nah. I’ll remember you,” he said.
“Okay. See you on a few hours,” I said. Randy said ‘Bye’ and hung up.
A few minutes later my phone rang. It was the number for Suzie’s RV Park. ‘Ah, crap,’ I thought. ‘He’s gonna cancel.”
“Hey, the is Randy,” he said without mentioning the park. Already we were old friends. “When you get here, park in D-9 instead.”
“Uh, okay,” I replied. “Thanks.” Randy hung up.
The drive took longer than expected because of the high winds and rain and frequent bathroom stops. It’s one of the advantages of having a bathroom with you. We arrived about 9:30, in the dark and I inched my way into the park looking for the numbers on the RV spaces. I heard a faint yell somewhere behind me but couldn’t see anything when suddenly a black dog ran in front of the RV followed by a wirehaired man in his late 60s limping precariously close to the from of my vehicle. I hit the brakes, and he came around as I opened my driver’s side window.
“Hi,” I said. “I called earlier about a spot. Sorry we’re so late. I ran into some weather and some construction.” The construction hadn’t been that bad, but I threw it in for good measure.
“I’m Randy. Back up a little bit and follow me around this way.” He indicated making and ark with his arm to the left and then he was gone.
I backed up about 10 feet, cranked the wheel hard to the left and followed the road. My headlights illuminated a row of high-end RVs, all towing trailers and each with full dress Harleys parked in front. These people traveled in style. I could see Randy hustling in front of me by a few yards and then turning and leading me into spot D-10. I hesitated and Randy guided me in, so I pulled forward. He gave me the raised fist sign to stop my forward progress and then approached the window.
“That looks good. You can get some rest and hook up in the morning.”
“Cool,” I said. Let me come take care of the fee for two nights.”
“Nah,” he said. “Just pay me in the morning or whenever.” And with that he and his dog disappeared into the darkness.
The next morning, I walked the dogs and then hooked up the sewer line. I had plugged in the electric and water the night before. I made my way down to the front of the park admiring all the shiny Harleys on either side of me. I couldn’t find anything that looked like an office, so I asked several people out and having their morning coffee.
“Do you know where I can find the office?” I asked. A woman in black cutoff shorts and an old sleeveless Harly Davidson tee stood up.
“That’s Randy’s house there. The double wide. Just knock. If he’s there. He’ll answer.”
I thanked the woman as she went back to coffee with her friends and wandered over to the grey building. I stood at the bottom of the steps and knocked. A minute or so later, Randy’s burley biker body filled the door frame.
“Oh, hey,” he said, “Come in.
The room was filled with biker memorabilia. There were posters from earlier rallies, artwork made from motorcycle parts, and a few hunting trophies. Randy led me to the kitchen and we sat at his table.
“I wanted to thank you for getting me situated late last night and to pay you for the two nights. You had me park in D-10 but told me earlier to park in D-9. I can move if you need me to.”
“Nah, that’s okay,” Randy said in a voice now familiar to me. “If that guy shows up, I’ll have him park in D-9.”
I took a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Randy.
“It’s $45 a night pre-rally. You want change?” I waved him off. “Good, he said, because I don’t know where anything is.”
“We might stay an extra night if that’s okay. I need to ask my wife what she wants to do. Can you tell me the WiFi password so I can get online?”
“Uh….let me see. I think I have it written down somewhere.”
He stood and walked the two steps over to the kitchen and began to rummage through a drawer looking for something. He came out with a notebook and in that moment, his expression saddened.
“This was my wife’s place. She loved it here. Built it from scratch. We bought the land when it was cheap and started renting spaces out for people to camp during rally. Little by little Suzie put in the electric and water and sewer lines.”
He fingered the pages of the notebook not really looking for anything. “She died a couple of years ago in a motorcycle accident.”
I tried to break the spell.
“You guys ran this place together?”
“Nah,” he said. “I was a truck driver. Never home. I’d take my vacation during rally and fix any problems, but the rest of the time, I didn’t help much. Suzie loved working around here. She loved the people, loved riding with them, loved meeting new folks and welcoming back people who had been here before. Some people have been coming here for 30 years. Just like the sign says. Come as strangers and leave as friends.”
Randy paused for a moment.
“All this stuff…” Randy made a sweeping gesture with his hand, people gave her. The motorcycle stuff, the old signs.”
“It’s really nice stuff,” I said. “Vintage.”
“I want to get rid of it. It’s just collecting dust. You can have whatever you want.”
“No. I appreciate it, though,” I said. Randy had long stopped looking for the WiFi code.
“I retired a year before she died. My knees were getting real bad and other people had to help me hook and unhook my trailer. They didn’t want me to quit, but I was tired of being babied.”
Randy returned to the table.
“I bought a new trike so we could ride together again. Suzie loved to ride, especially in a group. You know, when she died there were over a thousand bikes in the procession? Stretched all the way through Sturgis and then some. People loved her. We only had that year after I retired. I should have stayed home more.”
“Well,” I said, “we’re glad to be here and I’m sure we’ll be back. This is a really nice place here in the valley.” That seemed to break the spell. A smile returned to his face.
“Well, we love having you here. You let me know if you need anything.” Randy stood and so did I and we headed for his front door.
“I’ll let you know as soon as possible if we’re going to stay another day.”
“Nah, he said. Don’t worry about it just come by whenever. If I’m not here, just text me and we’ll get together.
I never did get that WiFi code, but somehow, it just didn’t seem that important.
Entry #9-Road Dawgs
We’re back at it. Back on the road heading north this time to visit some family before heading east to visit some family.
I know it seems redundant, but that’s because it is. Still, we are ready for new….let’s call them challenges rather than adventures. There’s lots to see and do on the road, but as we get older, it’s harder to do those things and we’re used to a certain lifestyle. I guess that’s why we bring our whole family with us. Those would be the dogs.
The last time we hit the road, we had three dogs, Scooter, Angel and Cary. Scooter, a Carin Terrier died on the day we left town. A few days before we were to leave, Scooter stopped eating. He was old, about 15 or 16 and was blind and deaf, but up ‘til then, had been mostly comfortable, planting his tan tanklike body on the dining room carpet under the table. He slept, mostly, but whenever I came home from the gym, he would jump up and search for me until he bumped into my leg and then paw at me asking for a scratch. We actually stopped at the vet on the way out of town to have Scooter put down. It was hard to let him go. He was my dawg.
Angel and Cary made the trip. Angel, blind, kept falling into the little stairwell near the door and we had to put a piece of plywood covering the hole to keep her from tumbling in. Cary was a nervous wreck for the first few days. If I left the rig, he would hop up onto the dashboard frantically pacing back and forth looking for me. Both were confused about what was happening, their home buttoned up and moving most days and then suddenly becoming more spacious when we camped for a few days or a week. Eventually, they got used to the routine. Angel passed away a few months ago. She was my little boo and loved me to the end.
This time around, we have a couple of new kids, Gordie, named for Gordon Lightfoot, and Cloudy after a friend who passed away last year. This matched pair, brother and sister we think, are a mixed breed, part Bichon and part Carin Terrier. Gordie reminds me a bit of Scooter.
Getting them to come along on the trip was no easy task. They ran away as I tried to round them up and put them in the RV. They resisted my putting them in their harnesses. As we hit the road to the northwest, Cary fell back into the routine while Gordie and Cloudy had to adjust. Nervous about what was happening and why we were moving into a smaller house, the two of them sat next to me as I drove. Eventually they got used to the long days, sleeping as we moved northward and learning how to get in and out of the RV for walk and such. Eventually, every stop was a new adventure.
I am always amazed at how adaptable my kids have been. As they have aged, became infirm, blind, deaf or otherwise, they just accepted it. In only a matter of a few days, the two new kids have figured out that this is their new life, and they seem to be okay with it.
Traveling with the kids is not the easiest thing. It’s an adjustment for me as well. Early every morning, they wake me for their morning constitutional. At home, they just use the doggie door, but here, it’s up and at ‘em at 6 or 7 AM for a walk. It means having a doggie pee pad strategically placed and cleaning up the occasional mess. It means cooking their food on the road and wrestling them into our tiny shower for a bath.
The upside is that I get to have my whole family with me. We traverse borders together, take walks together, eat meals together. We rumble through the heat and rain and wind together. We get to see the world through a 9 by 5 foot windshield, breathe the cool ocean air and the scent of the lodgepole pines. We see moose and seals and osprey and all manner of creatures not native to our home together. We wonder at the vastness of the ocean, hear its roar and bathe in its mist together. We are truly, one and all, road dawgs.
Entry#8-Who Are These People?
There is an RV sub-culture and these people are a trip. I know, I know. This is not really a revelation and I’m not sure what kind of mentality brings one to embrace the RV lifestyle. Are people lured or driven to it? Most people have their own opinions about RV-ers. Some see them as retired folks wanting to travel cheaply and in comfort. (This is a myth as traveling via RV can be quite expensive after you figure in fuel prices, maintenance and park fees.) I have to admit that traveling from state to state in relative comfort offers a certain sense of freedom, but that could be done in a low, long stylish convertible.
Some see RV-ers as blowhard affluent people just showing off, their $200,000 RV just another toy like a boat or an expensive car. Rich f***s. Others believe them to be wanderers who can’t cope with society or just want to be free of the law and government. If you’ve seen “Nomadland,” Chloé Zhao’s film that used this particular community and their stories to populate her film, you know how depressing that lifestyle can be. There are RV Vloggers monetizing their wanderlust, kids taking a gap year or gap decade before deciding what to do and parents showing their kids the world.
I can tell you from my travels that the first observation tends to be the truest and the majority of my fellow travelers fall into the category of retired folks taking the comfort of their homes with them. RV parks offer water, electricity and sewer hookups and WiFi connections so that travelers can use their showers, kitchens and watch television programs while sitting in front of a fireplace or under an awning gazing at the surrounding landscape. Some parks are located on the beach, near lakes, rivers, streams or just the wilderness in general. Some are in the heart of the metropolis near cool places like museums or concert venues. It’s like owning a Tardis.
As I walk the dogs through the various RV parks, I see people who have made this home on wheels a little homier. They have carpets at the foot of the RV’s entrance, fences defining their space, strings of lights and maybe a sign with the family name or where they’re from. (New Mexico on the Road!) There are cigarette smokers, card players, grill masters and book readers.
Most parks offer a clubhouse, showers, laundries and other amenities like swimming pools, and maybe even a gym. The clubhouse TV is usually tuned to Fox News or Nickelodeon. Almost every camping space has a fire pit and parking for guests. There are common areas where people gather and swap road stories. Most seasoned travelers have visited the same places and seen the same things.
At the pricier RV resorts, you will find travelers simply living the good life. These are usually the places on the beach, lakeside or surrounded by some sort of theme park. You can camp in a vineyard if you are an oenophile, visit the Civil War sites if you are a history buff or plan some extreme team building RV adventures for your employees. There are celebrity RV adventures just like there are celebrity cruises. You can combine your passion for RVing with your passion for, say, marathoning or soccer or concerts.
There are mere stopover parks where people are on their way from one destination to the next. These line the major highway arteries across this country and simply offer one a pad to park on and basic hookups. There are places in nearly every national park as well as county and state parks.
There are seasonal travelers, people who camp up north in the summer and become snowbirds in the winter and migrate south in the winter. There are bucket list travelers wanting to see every national park or every minor league ball field. Some have simply given up traveling all together and live full time at their favorite RV park, adding skirting to their travel trailers, importing tool sheds, planting gardens and such. They have jobs or sell artwork or tools or flea market brick-a-brack to make ends meet. Retirees can almost live in an RV park full time.
“Are you a full timer?” somebody asked me one day.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“A full timer. I’m sure I saw you out at Smith’s Point last week.” We had moved from the beach to the forest for a change of pace.
“Uh, no,” I said. “I don’t think so…I mean, we just bought this thing a few weeks ago and came here to visit family and then we’ll see where it takes us.”
“I’m a full timer. I’ve been everywhere,” he continued without missing a beat. I’ve been doing this for seven years. That’s my rig over there.” He pointed to a space two down from me. It was a towable 5th wheel and it looked like it had been on the road for seven years.
I nodded in agreement as I am not so fond of talking to strangers and excused myself to set up our campsite.
“One more thing,” he said. “See this guy here? He’s supposed to be backed in. He’s not supposed to have his front door facing your front door. It’s poor manners, looking directly into someone’s living room.”
The RV community is helpful like that. They want to make sure that you don’t commit some sort of RV faux paus like walking through someone’s campsite or leaving your garbage out to attract wildlife like alligators. There was actually a rule (all RV parks have rules) at our Louisiana RV stopover warning residents not to leave pets or garbage out because it would attract alligators. Had I known that alligators might wander onto my campsite looking for a tasty morsel that was our Angel or Cary, I might have made another choice to stay overnight.
Overall, RV-ers are nice people; polite, private, respectful and cheerful. They rarely share their political opinions except for the occasional prominent display of the American flag or maybe a Trump banner. When quiet hours (10:00PM-8:00 AM) go into effect, most turn down their music and sit quietly by the fire pit or head into their little homes on wheels for the night to plan the next day’s adventure.
Entry #7 The Politics of the Road
“God bless corrupt politicians,” I heard a voice on the other side of the gas pump say. I tend to try to avoid conversations with strangers, so I pretended not to be there, but quickly after the comment the head of a middle-aged man peeks around the gas pump expecting an answer. “I’ll bet you really appreciate it.”
When we left on our RV excursion across the country, gas was $4.50 a gallon. Now, here I was paying a little over $3.00. With an 80 gallon tank that means a difference between paying over $300.00 per fill up to closer to $275.00.
“The closer we get to the mid-terms; the cheaper gas gets.” My neighbor was animated and starting to encroach on my territory. “These people must think we’re stupid. Biden releases strategic reserves trying to buy votes, but as soon as the election is over, you mark my word, fuel prices will shoot right back up.”
He had a point. Gas had gotten cheaper and artificially so. It wouldn’t matter who was occupying the white house, this would be a move that any politician worth her or his salt would make when approaching an election.
“We’re going to have to scrape these stickers off of the gas pumps,” he said indicating the photo stickers of President Biden pointing to the gas price on the pump with the dialogue balloon proclaiming, ‘I did that!’ He tried to get his thumbnail under a corner of the sticker. “I bet you’re happy about this.”
“I’m not complaining,” I said hoping this would end the conversation and that the pump would reach its max soon. It mercifully clicked off as the tank reached its capacity. I said a polite goodbye and completed my transaction.
In America, once an election cycle is over another one begins immediately. Our government exists to perpetuate itself. This year, our mid-terms are the most contentious in decades. Everywhere we’ve traveled, every race; local, statewide and national has been divisive. Election ads have replaced the feeder ads for class action lawsuits for everything from talcum powder to anyone who was even near Marine Base Camp LeJune.
Side note: A long time ago, Congress passed a law that forced all media to run political ads at the lowest advertising rate and to even force media to bump other advertising in favor of political ads. This was done to make access to media fairer for those people running for office who did not have millions of dollars in their war chests. The upshot is those same congress men and women with millions of campaign dollars get more bang for their buck. But I digress.
The yard signs are everywhere and come in all ethnicities. Wozniak. Fox. Martinez. Bhan. Addabbo. Gupta. There are newcomers who see their opportunity in the divisiveness. Because the mid-terms have pretty much boiled down to the Supreme Court handing the decision for abortion rights back to the states, there are people that are running solely on that issue. The other side is running on the usual plank of fear. Fear of crime. Fear of immigration. Fear of economic collapse. They also tend to harp on their opponent’s lack of experience.
Every local television station is running ads with video of the candidates’ opponents screaming about abortion rights or transgender danger. The videos have all been edited to look more sinister than they are and the voiceovers are dark and brooding. The thing about the advertising is that they tend to drive the conversations I hear as I travel. At the folk conference in Chicago and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland the conversations tend to be more liberal, but now meaner, more radical.
In the RV parks, people there are much more conservative, retirees flying the flag and sitting around the fire ring talking about the erosion of their rights. They pass around videos of democratic leaders who are having memory problems like Senator Diane Feinstein or of John Fetterman struggling through a debate last week while recovering from a stroke.
It seems to me that we have all chosen sides, and it seems like it is all going to come down who there are more of, us or them. (At this point, you get to choose if you are us or them.) I don’t have a side. I tend to have my own special projects that don’t have anything to do with politics. Church, veterans, musicians and homeless pets. (Musicians and homeless pets are pretty much the same thing.)
As of this writing, the average national gas price is $3.79. (Source; AAA) When we left NM, it was $4.21. I have noticed that gas prices and tolls are higher in democratically controlled states. Just sayin’.
Entry #6-Bud
While traveling, I had the opportunity to see a solemn ceremony that I had seen before but never in such an intimate fashion. A dozen police cruisers lined up on a side street and in the parking lot adjacent a full color guard complete with bagpiper performed a memorial service for a fallen police officer. There were a number of policemen there, some in dress uniform, some in their Class B regular duty unis.
I have seen this ceremony before. While working in radio, our fifth-floor offices overlooked Albuquerque’s downtown civic plaza just across the street from the APD headquarters. With over 1100 police officers in the APD, the service might involve a third of the police force. Post ceremony processions would consist of long lines of police cars and motorcycle patrol officers solemnly following the hearse to the cemetery.
On this day in Bayport, Long Island I was drawn in because I was less than a block away where I could hear the crisp commands given to the honor guard and the slap of the officers snapping to attention. The honor guard stepped precisely into place, white gloves and dress shoes gleaming in the late summer sun. They posted the colors and raised their rifles. There was the sharp report of three volleys of seven shots. The bagpiper played Amazing Grace. Nobody moved a muscle.
Someone outside of my field of vision, a chaplain spoke this prayer.
O Almighty God, whose great power and eternal Wisdom embraces the universe, Watch over all policemen and Law enforcement officers everywhere. Protect them from harm in the performance of their duty to stop crime, robbery, riots and violence. We pray, help them keep our streets and homes safe, day and night.
We commend them to your loving care because their duty is dangerous. Grant them strength and courage in their daily assignments. Dear God, protect these brave men and women. Grant them your almighty protection, unite them safely with their families after duty has ended.
Please God, grant us this wish.
Following the prayer, the honor guard received the command “Order Arms” and retrieved the colors. Another officer, perhaps a Captain, announced loudly that this was the Last Radio Call for the canine officer known as Bud. He announced his length of service, his retirement date, and the simple words “Gone, but not forgotten.”
Until that moment, I did not realize that this was a funeral for a retired police dog. I knew that they were afforded the same respect during their careers. For instance, if a suspect attacked or injured a police dog during an apprehension, that suspect would be charged with assault on police officer. In some localities, it might be a felony, but in most cases is a misdemeanor punishable up to two years in jail. To see these men, these community servants that, in all likelihood were using their day off to honor their four-legged friend just blew me away.
A single pallbearer carried a small box. An American flag, folded in the traditional triangular pattern, was placed on top. He marched past the line of officers who snapped again to attention and saluted as he made his way to a waiting police cruiser. The officer on the end of the line broke formation, stepped to the cruiser and smartly opened the door while the pallbearer stepped in without breaking his stride. The command for dismissal was given and the policemen headed to their respective cruisers. In a matter of moments, they were on the road and disappeared single file with full lights and sirens east down Mantauk highway.
Not wanting to intrude, I went back the next day and queried the staff. They told a wonderful story, each one of them adding a bit here and there and each one tearing up as they recalled the day. Bud had been retired from police work due to his age. Over the years, they had gotten to know him through stories his owner, another retired Suffolk County police officer, had told them. He had adopted Bud immediately upon the canine officer’s retirement. It seems that Bud had a knack for ferreting out criminals in hiding and was fearless when controlling violent offenders. He had been injured once or twice in scuffles with suspects, but Bud loved his job.
Bud had served his community well and lived the rest of his life in retirement enjoying the days playing fetch and lying in the sun. When it became apparent that his time was running out, Bud’s owner and companion let the rest of Suffolk County’s finest know. The honor guard was scheduled for a day when Bud’s former partner would be available. Other officers volunteered to be part of the ceremony as they would for any of their fellow heroes. On the scheduled day, Bud, his owner and his former partner calmly walked into the vet’s office where, surrounded by his friends and fellow officers, he was euthanized and went quietly to sleep.
The fuss made around this dog was not unusual. Bud himself, in fact, had attended ceremonies like this for other fallen officers, both human and canine, always sitting stiffly at attention as the ceremony progressed. It was only fitting that these officers would treat him with the same attention and respect that he himself had given and I was honored to see it happen.
Entry# 5-Double Decker
While traveling through Michigan, my wife Kathy wanted to stop at one of her old haunts for lunch, Bob’s Big Boy. Although founded in southern California in the mid-30s, the restaurant chain had grown to a few dozen or so franchises under various names by the late 60’s when my future wife was living here.
Around the same time, I was a teenager living in New Mexico and cruising up and down Route 66 or Central Avenue in a friend’s car on Saturday nights. We would travel from downtown and up Central Avenue to the Dog House for a footlong, and continue west to Nine Mile Hill. Once there, we would turn around and head east to the other end of town where guys would race their cars on south Eubank Boulevard until the Sherriff’s ran us off.
Back down Central we cruised stopping mid-town to the Vip’s Big Boy for a round of cherry Cokes and finally back to downtown and right on Fourth Street and eight miles back to Alameda on the north edge of the Duke City. We always thought it was a unique experience, but it was something that was being repeated all around the country and Big Boy was a part of it.
Bob’s Big Boy was founded by Bob Wian who quit his job and sold his 1933 DeSoto Roadster for $300 to make the down payment on a 10-stool hamburger stand in Glendale called The Pantry. He borrowed $50 from his father for meat and supplies and reopened as Bob’s Pantry. According to the menu, his signature Big Boy hamburger was born when “a group of jazz musicians” came into the restaurant looking for something different. The Big Boy was, according to legend, the first double-decker hamburger sold in this country and possibly, anywhere.
I, of course, am fascinated by the thought of jazz musicians being the reason the double-decker hamburger was born. In the mid-30s, jazz was synonymous with all things evil like sex and drugs. I like to think that the scene looked like this.
SCENE: A SMALL, DIMLY LIT ROADSIDE HAMBURGER STAND
A hulking old Plymouth with faded paint lumbers into the parking lot. Out of the car pile four boisterous young men in black slacks, shirts and white ties. They tumble into the parking lot, smoke billowing from the open car doors. The men are laughing hysterically. They enter the stand.
THE HAMBURGER STAND IS EMPTY. THERE ARE 10 RED UPHOLSTERED BAR STOOLS LINED UP IN FRONT OF A WHITE COUNTER. BEHIND THE COUNTER IS A GRILL ATTENDED BY A YOUNG MAN IN A WHITE SHIRT AND APRON.
The men stumble into the hamburger stand not from inebriation, but rather from laughter.
RITCHIE
Man, I can’t believe that’s why they call you skillet. I thought it was because you so dark.
JAMES
Naw, man. They call him Skillet because his ol’ lady hit him in the head with one of them big ol’ frying pans you see in the cartoons when she thought he was cheatin’ on her.
SKILLET
C’mon, man. Give it a break.
THOMAS
Your just lucky she didn’t hit you with a rolling pin or we might be calling you Rolling Pin!
There’s more laughter as the young man behind the counter approaches the men.
BOB
Good evening gentlemen. May I help you?
SKILLET
What’s you got?
BOB
(Pointing to the menu on the wall.) Hamburgers, French fries, soda, milkshakes, hot fudge sundaes. I can also make you some pancakes or a sandwich. You know, ham and cheese. Grilled cheese. Stuff like that.
RITCHIE
Man, how come we never stop at an actual restaurant where I can get me a steak or chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy?
SKILLET
You the one driving. Besides, you can’t afford a steak, bass man. If we start making more than a hundred dollars a night we might be able to afford to stay in a motel or eat at a decent restaurant….uh, no offense.
BOB
None taken. You boys musicians?
THOMAS
Finest jazz on the west coast. My name is Thomas. This is Ritchie, James and our drummer Skillet. (All begin to snicker again except for Skillet.)
BOB
I’m Bob. This is my place, Bob’s Pantry. What can I get you fellas?
SKILLET
Hamburger. Fries. Chocolate shake.
JAMES
Hamburger. Fries. Coffee, black.
THOMAS
Hamburger. Fries. Chocolate shake.
RITCHIE
Man. I’m hungry. How big is your sandwiches?
BOB
Oh, you know. Two slices of bread, meat or cheese, lettuce, tomato.
RITCHIE
You ain’t got no chicken?
BOB
Sorry, no.
RITCHIE
Man, I need me some meat.
JAMES
C’mon, man. Order something. We got to get to Oakland in time to get some sleep.
BOB
I could make you two. There only ten cents apiece.
RITCHIE
I need me something special. Something with some meat on it. You know? Not just a patty between a bun. I don’t like all that bread.
BOB
Let me see what I can do.
Bob wanders away slices s couple of potatoes for fries, puts them in the fryer and puts some hamburger patties on the grill. While everything cooks, he makes the shakes, and brings them and the coffee to his guests. He returns to the grill, flips the burgers, and begins to assemble them. He is animated as he puts this meal together, humming.
THOMAS
Man, why do you have to be so difficult all the time?
RITCHIE
Man, I just want what I want. Besides. I’m the front man of the Ritchie Davis group. I deserve something special.
The rest of the group groans. At that, Bob returns with four baskets of fries and hamburgers, placing them in front of Skillet, James, Thomas and then with much flourish, Ritchie. His hamburger is twice as tall as the others, and they take notice.
SKILLET
What is that?
BOB
It’s a hamburger with a little more meat. It has the same things on it as a regular hamburger with lettuce, tomato and relish, but I split the bun into thirds and put two hamburger patties and two slices of cheese. What do you think?
Everybody’s eyes widen.
RITCHIE
This I can deal with. What do you call it?
BOB
Well, I don’t know? It’s kind of a double burger.
THOMAS
Like one of those double-decker busses we saw over in England.
JAMES
Yeah. Those things were crazy.
BOB
Hey! That’ not a bad name. The Bob’s double-decker hamburger!
SKILLET
Yeah, man. That’s a big boy.
BOB
Hmmm……
And there you have it. Because of a quad of jazz musicians, maybe a little high, maybe not, the Bob’s Big Boy was born. Bob went on to franchise his restaurant using the checkered overalled Big Boy mascot with the jet black, flip top hair with the proviso that the franchisee keep the signature hamburger name Big Boy.
Since then, there has been Big Boy comic book written by Stan Lee, toys, tees and restaurants around the country and Japan under various names, from Azar’s to Shoney’s to Vips. The biggest contribution to dining is the Big Boy. It inspired burgers like it everywhere, from the Big Mac to my favorite, the In-N-Out Double-Double. (I’m a vegetarian these days, but I will make an exception for a Double-Double.)
So, thank you jazz and marijuana for changing the face of fast food in America. If it weren’t for the munchies of a few musicians who wanted more than what was on the menu, we might only have a bag of Whitecastle burgers to satisfy our cravings.
Entry #4- An Outsiders View of Long Island
I would describe Long Island as what’s left of Colonial New York. The island itself is 180 miles long and about 25 miles wide. (Closer to 140 miles long if you subtract Queens. They consider themselves part of New York city.) There are about seven and a half million people living here. Bear in mind that where I’m from, New Mexico, there are only two million or so people in the entire state and we are the fifth largest state in area. The county I live in is two thirds the size of Long Island. It boggles the mind. Somehow, though, Long Island does not seem crowded unless you happen to be on the Long Island Expressway during rush hour.
Long Island is a collection of 13 towns, 95 unincorporated villages and two Native American reservations divided between four counties. And it’s so green. Being from the desert southwest, I am used to being able to see the landscape unfold in front of me for miles and miles. Here, every thoroughfare is lined with massive trees. Somewhere behind those trees are schools and shopping malls and any number of beautiful homes, but I can’t see them, so, like a horse wearing blinders, they don’t exist. It’s like driving through an endless corn maze. Once I’m able to get past the trees, the real Long Island shows itself.
Expecting to see paved parking lots and strip malls behind the trees, what I find instead are more trees. Thick, moss green forests. That’s not to say that Long Island is void of any commercialization. There are stretches of modern roads that have sprouted strip malls and big box stores. There are convenience stores and gas stations and new businesses, but the heart and soul of Long Island are the small villages that seem to pop up every few miles or so.
With so many unincorporated villages crowded into a little over 1400 square miles, all you need do is drive a mile in any direction and you are in another hamlet. Each one has its own special charm, its own history dating back to the revolutionary war and they cherish and protect that history. Setauket boasts of the Culper spy ring based there during the revolutionary war, organizing raids from Connecticut across Long Island Sound. Two hundred years ago shipbuilding was taking place in Port Jefferson Station or Port Jeff to the residents. PT Barnum’s famous circus wintered there in the late 1800s. Some histories are mixed because towns were split and split again. Brookhaven claims Declaration of Independence signer William Floyd, but so does Mastic Beach because these places were once part of Brookhaven where Floyd owned property.
On Long Island, there are a hundred way to get to any point on the island and none of those roads travel in a straight line except for 112 which pretty much dissects the island separating east from west. The streets are still narrow and curvy in many places, lolling up and down hills in a lazy fashion. In many other places around the country, the hills would have been bulldozed and the roads straightened for progress’ sake. Here everything remains as it was. Not much has changed in a century save for the numerous homes built there. As you drive through this neighborhood or that you’ll see small groups of deer munching somebody’s lawn or a flock of turkeys crossing the road which begs the question; How do they know to cross at the Turkey X-ing sign? There are other signs informing us that there is an autistic or handicapped child in the neighborhood. Do Long Islanders love their children more than we do back in Albuquerque?
Because Long Island is a collection of hamlets, the place has retained its old-world charm. There are lots of mixed use structures that have a residence in the back and a business in the front. A simple wooden shingle generally hangs out front announcing the office of an attorney or a dentist or chiropractor. There must be town rules regarding signage and displays for these signs and those rules likely state that any signage cannot be gaudy or offensive. Or maybe people just like to keep things simple.
These businesses on Long Island are well established, sometimes having been there for decades. It’s not uncommon to find a mechanic’s shop or service station that has been in business since automobiles became more commonplace in the 40s. I found an old Shell station in Yaphank that looks as if it has been there since at least the 50s. The owners have kept the building, the gas pumps and the signage as it was all those years ago, but it is still a working mechanics shop. There are butchers and bakers, seafood shops and appliance stores, all family owned and most housed in the original locations.
There are the unavoidable conveniences of modern life where department stores and franchise retailers line many of the main thoroughfares, but these are buffeted by treelined neighborhoods. It seems that on alternating blocks there is pizza joint or a deli. Long Island is populated by New Yawkers, after all. There are little Italian joints, bagel shops, Greek diners adorned in chrome and glass and other Mediterranean cuisine sandwiched in between these anchors, but few fast-food places. This is in stark contrast to my home where fast food joints are always within a few blocks of wherever you are. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit to find out that any number of neighborhoods nixed a McDonalds or Burger King for sheer aesthetics.
Despite the number of people living here, there are still quite a few farms on the island. The local produce is fantastic and there are fruit and veggie stands with the sweetest corn and peaches I have ever tasted. In New Mexico the air and land are dry and so the produce tends to be a smaller and not quite as juicy. On Long Island, the tomatoes are big, fat and juicy. There are pumpkin patches, honey stands, places to buy home made pies and “pick your own produce” farms for the tourists. Again, these places exist elsewhere but, on the island, they have honed the farmstand to a fine art. I even saw a small display where someone had put out buckets of cut sunflowers for the taking.
As we traveled further east toward Orient Point to catch the ferry across the sound to our next destinations in Connecticut and beyond, the real estate became pricier and the farms gave way to vineyards and exclusive waterside hotels and bistros. Nothing about Long Island had changed. No pricey, exclusive department stores sandwiched into the more affluent neighborhoods or big box stores on demand in a neighborhood for convenience sake. (Years ago on a visit here I saw that they had built a K-Mart in the Hamptons) Instead, just more of the same simple landscapes and greenery that makes Long Island what it is. A place where people put aside the rest of the world to just live.
Entry #3-Rich F***
I stopped to re-fill the fuel tank of the RV before we got settled on Long Island for the next week or so. The thing is so massive that I really need to be careful where I fill up. It takes up an entire side of a pump station. I have to pull the RV all the way forward to even get close to the fill spout near the back of the driver’s side of the vehicle.
The steps that lead up to the door extend automatically when you open the door and remain that way until the door is closed. Once the the engine is re-started, they automatically retract. This presents a problem when fueling because if you pull into one of the bays in the middle of a fueling station they tend to stick out into the center of the drive through where someone could run them over. The best bet is to pull up to an outside bay where drivers have plenty of room to go around our behemoth.
I found a relatively quiet gas station with an open outside bay and not much traffic. Perfect. I pulled cautiously up to the pumps taking care to make sure that the RV was not too tall for the awning. Once I was sure that I was properly situated, I set the parking brake, exited the vehicle and made my way around the back of the vehicle. I scanned my credit card and shoved the nozzle down the thirsty throat of the dragon.
Since it takes quite a while to fill the tank, I take that time to wander into the store and pick up a bottle of water and maybe a snack. Coming back out, I notice a tall, thin middle aged guy with dark hair standing at my pump, hand on the nozzle as if he’s filling my tank. I hustle up to him and he greets me with a big smile. “Thought you could use some help,” he says.
“I’m good,” I reply and he moves away from the fill spout.
“You’re not supposed to leave the pump unattended,” he lets me know. I do know that this is a rule that varies from state to state and even municipality to municipality. In some places, there are no self-service pumps.
“You work here?” I ask.
“I help out around here,” he replies vaguely. “Want me to wash your window?”
I look at the short-handled squeegee in an orange bucket between the pumps. It might reach the bottom third of my windshield. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“Man, you must have some money,” he says casting his gaze down the length of the beast.
“Um….no….not really,” I say kind of embarrassed.
At that point a silver haired guy in a maroon Cadillac convertible pulls up next to us and leans out the window and says “Man, that’s somethin’.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say kind of embarrassed.
“How much does something like that cost?”
“A little over a hundred K.”
“See? I knew you had money,” the gas station helper says, lighting up.
“Not really,” I respond, still feeling embarrassed.
“Man, that’s something,” the Caddy guy says again. He waves and drives off.
After that, the gas pump mercifully clicks off at $175.00, the limit that the pump will allow. My helper leaps forward, squeezes the nozzle once or twice, retrieves it and places it back into the pump. He flashes that million-dollar grin at me. I reach into my pocket and hand him two one-dollar bills. He thanks me and jogs off down the street.
I make my way back inside the RV, sit myself down, start the engine and release the parking brake. I check my mirrors and my backup camera before pulling cautiously away from the pumps toward the street. I look both ways several times and wait for the traffic to clear sufficiently enough for me to ease this whale out into traffic. It rocks a bit as I make a left turn onto the two-lane road that will take me back to my destination.
This behemoth lumbers slowly forward, picking up speed bit by bit. Out of my driver’s side mirror an older Malibu pulls across a double yellow line to pass me. He leans on his horn, flips me the bird and yells out “Stupid rich f***!” and speeds off.
I’m confused. I’m not a rich f***. I’m a poor f***. At the very least, I’m an over-extended f***. It’s going to take thirty years of my life to pay for this brick. It is literally a house on wheels.
I guess I can see his point. Some guy in a giant RV interrupts his journey from point A to point B. He has purpose. Maybe he’s on his way to work or on his way home from work or even just out to lunch. Now, along comes this person in a hundred-thousand-dollar bus just wandering around the countryside slowing his progress. This is a situation I’ve never found myself in before.
I guess I’ve dreamed about having money. About being able to buy things like this, to be able to travel anywhere I want anytime I want. Somehow, though, being seen as that person makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to be a rich f***.
Entry #2-Week One
So, the idea was to purchase the RV, try it out for a month or so and get used to the ins and outs of how things are set up. Well, that didn’t happen.
For weeks, we’d been watching RV videos to get a sense of what we might expect. There were the standard tips and tricks, the invaluable RV park decorum and just what to expect on the road. We learned about what to be careful of and, with regard to our septic system, we learned about the infamous “Poop Pyramid.” For some reason, many of these RV videos contain clips of the Robin Williams comedy RV in which the running joke had to do with enormous amounts of excrement. I never saw this particular movie but the clips that were inserted into the helpful hints videos were not particularly inspiring.
Our financing was delayed and having to get to a wedding in New York by a certain date, we had decided on alternate transportation. Just a week before we had to depart, our financing suddenly came through and after waiting a week for the dealer to prepare the vehicle, we picked it up two days before we were to leave.
I had a quick lesson in driving, turning and parking. We loaded the RV with everything that we thought we would need on the road (and a few things that we didn’t) and got ready to hit the road. And then, one more tragic delay. Our dog Scooter, my dog, really, suddenly became lethargic, stopped eating and we just knew he was ready to leave this existence.
Our vet confirmed that his condition was from massive organ failure due to his advanced age and some pre-existing conditions. We put him down as we headed east out of Albuquerque.
So, we hit the road with our two remaining pups, Angel, who is blind and Cary who is just hyper. With my stress levels up and my concentration needed to keep the RV between the lines, I didn’t really get the chance to grieve over Scooter. I wonder how he might have adapted. I like to think he might have been the same dog as always, lying in a corner somewhere asleep, waiting for someone to come and wake him for dinner.
With all the drama and the steep learning curve, my anxiety was through the roof. I was grumpy for most of the trip and snapped at my wife and the dogs. I was absolutely hating my decision to buy this monster that was now going to consume my life.
The first leg of the trip was rough. I was so concerned with keeping the RV between the lines that that my arms, hands and shoulder began to cramp up. The last few hours to our first destination were driven in the dark and the only thing I hate more than driving is driving in the dark. To make matters worse, my sciatica returned. Every morning it took me 20 minutes to get out of bed and get dressed and I was in pain throughout the day.
Driving through Oklahoma, the high winds kept me fighting just to stay on the road. When the roads got rough, things fell over or off of the couch or counter. The next few days of travel got easier, but were still stressful, still maddening at times. My mood was not getting any better and I was beginning to feel once again that I had made a huge mistake.
By our last day of travel on the first leg of our trip I was beginning to get the hang of setting up the RV for the night and getting things unhooked the next morning and back on the road. I had succumbed to the sticker shock of of filling up an 80-gallon fuel tank and wanted only to get to Long Island. As I drove, I was scheming, trying to figure out a way out of this mess. And then it happened.
As we approached our ultimate destination on route 80 from New Jersey, the trees parted and there in front of me was the New York City skyline rising up out of this vast green landscape like the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz. I have only flown into the Big Apple and have always been impressed with its scope from the air, but this was different. Here was the city that had always impressed me from an entirely different perspective. Even from this distance, it was massive. I could make out the famous silhouettes of the Empire State Building and the massive World Trade Tower that replaced the Twin Towers obliterated on 9/11/01.
In that moment, I realized what I had been seeing through my movie theater sized windshield was more than the changing landscape as we moved steadily east. I had noticed how things got greener and the landmarks that made each community we traveled through unique. There was massive cross as we drove through Groom, Texas as we drove along the interstate. (There is an equally massive cross outside of Branson, Missouri.) We drove past the St. Louis Arch on a very rough and scary freeway. I saw my first crop dusting helicopter and was amused by some of the roadside attractions we passed along the way.
It’s true. We could have seen these same things traveling by car, but not with the scope and magnitude that this unruly beast of a vehicle afforded. As the weeks have progressed, I have settled into the setup and tear down of the RV. I’ve learned how to cook in a small kitchen, and I have discovered that by sleeping in the recliner, my sciatica can be controlled. I am slowly being lured into the culture of the RVer. Not sure if that’s a good thing. I’ll let you know.
Entry #1-Day Zero
Kathy and I are on a new adventure. We have purchased a recreational vehicle. An RV in the parlance of the culture and yes, there is a culture. For my part, I promise never to refer to our RV a “rig” or use trucker lingo, fuss about the price of gas or give out tips on how to RV successfully.
This was something that was supposed to have happened a couple of years ago before the world became a bizarre global version of Escape From New York where everyone is on lockdown, from the president to the protester and only Snake Pliskin could save us.
The original idea was to rent an RV for a trip to New York to see Kathy’s niece get married. Because of Kathy’s illness, (Don’t ask. It takes too long to explain.) it was going to be much easier for me to drive and for her to rest so that she could enjoy the places and people we were going to visit.
Renting was insanely expensive, starting at about $700.00 a week for a smaller vehicle and it just seemed smarter to buy something that Kathy would be comfortable in and pay the equivalent in monthly payments. Fast forward to 2022 and we begin looking at RVs for sale online. We purchased something used that turned out to be much too old, needed far too much work and was much too small and uncomfortable for our needs.
With the wedding re-scheduled for August, Kathy did a ton more research. She discovered that age was often the determining factor in which RV parks would accept you. She calculated the costs of regular gas versus diesel fuel. We looked at tons or RVs online comparing amenities, storage, living space and more. Kathy settled on a vehicle in Georgetown, Texas and we were ready to pull the trigger.
As luck would have it, the exact same model showed up on our feed but was located in our hometown of Albuquerque Perfect. We loaded ourselves in the car and headed up Nine Mile Hill to the far westside of Albuquerque where the RV dealer was located. A young salesperson greeted us and we immediately told her we wanted to see the RV in question. She loaded us into a golf cart and after a bit of confusion where we were shown a gigantic bus by mistake, we arrived at the one we had seen online. It too, was gigantic by our observation. All we had seen were pictures on our computers and this was beyond our expectations.
We dismounted and when the salesperson opened the door to the vehicle, the stairs descended to greet us. Kathy was immediately in love. We took a quick tour, but there was no need. This was the home on wheels we were looking for. Being 37 feet long, 9 feet wide and 12 and a half feet tall, I knew that it would be a handful on the road, but this was a dream come true for Kathy and she would not be denied.
We returned to the sales office, made an offer that was 10K less than the asking price, which was accepted, and quickly signed away our lives, all our cash and most of our future earnings. There were a series of mishaps, miscommunications and delays, but eventually, we picked up the keys, packed it up and headed off into the east where we will visit family and friends, see a few sights and see if I can’t find a few places to play along the way. Who knows? This could become a permanent home.
So, here’s to the new rig. I hope to keep it between the ditches with the shiny side up and the dirty side down. 10-4, good buddies.