Just in case you were wondering what happened with the dead rearview TV, a mouse got in and ate the wire. You can't make this stuff up.
B
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Rope a Dope
July 29, Quebec Province. Heading for Riviere du Loup.
Another day with minor adventures. About 200 miles into a 400 mile trip, another caring soul with waving arms got our attention, warning us something was wrong. We pulled over and I jumped out and ran back to see how our little Saturn was doing. Halfway there, I realized with a sinking heart that I wasn’t seeing any car behind the RV. Then I spotted the little devil hiding behind the left rear tail light. That was odd. And it was kind of crooked, now that I thought about it. And what was that mess of metal where our towing mechanism was connected to the car?
Then I realized that only one of the arms of the v-shaped towing mechanism was connected to the car. The other side was a mangled mess, and was missing its cotter pin. Apparently the pin had shaken loose, and as a result, the car had been swerving all over the road like a little kid on a rope swing.
How would we know? We wouldn’t. Our backup camera had gone black about 100 miles back, and we had spent a good ten minutes trying to get it to work again, then given up because, after all, what could go wrong?
We unhooked the Saturn and I drove it, following John back about 20 miles to the last RV place we had spotted. It was a simple thing to re-hook the car with new cotter pins and get back on the highway. Nevertheless, we’re now hearing every little squeak and rattle, convinced that the tow thingy may be damaged and the car could dance away and we’d never know.
Now you may ask yourself why we didn’t get the camera fixed while we were right there at the RV place. Simple. Their Service Department was closed for vacation. One wonders if they were off RVing. Or maybe they were all just sitting home, beer in hand, chuckling.
Betty
Another day with minor adventures. About 200 miles into a 400 mile trip, another caring soul with waving arms got our attention, warning us something was wrong. We pulled over and I jumped out and ran back to see how our little Saturn was doing. Halfway there, I realized with a sinking heart that I wasn’t seeing any car behind the RV. Then I spotted the little devil hiding behind the left rear tail light. That was odd. And it was kind of crooked, now that I thought about it. And what was that mess of metal where our towing mechanism was connected to the car?
Then I realized that only one of the arms of the v-shaped towing mechanism was connected to the car. The other side was a mangled mess, and was missing its cotter pin. Apparently the pin had shaken loose, and as a result, the car had been swerving all over the road like a little kid on a rope swing.
How would we know? We wouldn’t. Our backup camera had gone black about 100 miles back, and we had spent a good ten minutes trying to get it to work again, then given up because, after all, what could go wrong?
We unhooked the Saturn and I drove it, following John back about 20 miles to the last RV place we had spotted. It was a simple thing to re-hook the car with new cotter pins and get back on the highway. Nevertheless, we’re now hearing every little squeak and rattle, convinced that the tow thingy may be damaged and the car could dance away and we’d never know.
Now you may ask yourself why we didn’t get the camera fixed while we were right there at the RV place. Simple. Their Service Department was closed for vacation. One wonders if they were off RVing. Or maybe they were all just sitting home, beer in hand, chuckling.
Betty
The Fly & I
I was raised with a taste for the finer things. Smooth sheets, good wine, ironed garments, orange juice with real pulp, pedicures and manicures, air conditioning, massages -- just about every creature comfort you can imagine. So here I sit, the happy passenger in my cream-colored leather recliner, my pink cell phone at the ready, my water bottle uncorked, my laptop computer ensconced in my lap, my dog sleeping at my feet, and the world spread out before me. Or at least Quebec.
And then this fly, this miniscule flying terrorist, this winged messenger of misery, this makes-you-want-to-scratch-all-over thing, this counterpart of the hog-squealers in Deliverance the movie, this purveyor of disquiet, this 1 gram of pure agony, this insect! decides to have some fun with me.
He circles my head and lands on my ear. I slap my head viciously as he dances away, no doubt giggling a little fly snigger. I’ve knocked my hearing aid out of my ear. It slides down between the seat and the window. I retrieve it, but the battery has fallen out. I get up, make my way to my purse in the back and dig in it for a new battery.
Meanwhile, the fly circles the room. He’s watching me; I’m watching him.
I put the hearing aid back in my sore ear, sit down and re-buckle my seat belt. Then I remember my computer. It’s on the couch, next to my purse. I unbuckle my seat belt, make my wobbly way back to the couch, grab the computer and sit back down.
The fly returns. He buzzes my computer; I slam my hand into the screen and it goes black. When I re-boot, everything I’ve written is gone. Saving has never been a strong point with me. I start again. I’m trying to remember what I was talking about when he lands on my toe. I use the computer to slam my toe and end up with red toenail polish on its new white cover. My toe starts to throb.
Now the dog is barking at the cursing, which being a lady, I haven’t included here.
“What the hell is going on?” says John, momentarily looking away from the skinny road he’s trying to navigate.
“There’s a fly,” says I.
“Yeah, and?” he says.
He just doesn’t get it.
Betty
And then this fly, this miniscule flying terrorist, this winged messenger of misery, this makes-you-want-to-scratch-all-over thing, this counterpart of the hog-squealers in Deliverance the movie, this purveyor of disquiet, this 1 gram of pure agony, this insect! decides to have some fun with me.
He circles my head and lands on my ear. I slap my head viciously as he dances away, no doubt giggling a little fly snigger. I’ve knocked my hearing aid out of my ear. It slides down between the seat and the window. I retrieve it, but the battery has fallen out. I get up, make my way to my purse in the back and dig in it for a new battery.
Meanwhile, the fly circles the room. He’s watching me; I’m watching him.
I put the hearing aid back in my sore ear, sit down and re-buckle my seat belt. Then I remember my computer. It’s on the couch, next to my purse. I unbuckle my seat belt, make my wobbly way back to the couch, grab the computer and sit back down.
The fly returns. He buzzes my computer; I slam my hand into the screen and it goes black. When I re-boot, everything I’ve written is gone. Saving has never been a strong point with me. I start again. I’m trying to remember what I was talking about when he lands on my toe. I use the computer to slam my toe and end up with red toenail polish on its new white cover. My toe starts to throb.
Now the dog is barking at the cursing, which being a lady, I haven’t included here.
“What the hell is going on?” says John, momentarily looking away from the skinny road he’s trying to navigate.
“There’s a fly,” says I.
“Yeah, and?” he says.
He just doesn’t get it.
Betty
More Errata
Why is it that …
The 5-second glue I brought with me had its five seconds about four years ago.
I haven’t bought anything worth hanging up, but I’m still short seven hangers.
Men’s shoes smell … leathery. And women’s don’t.
Men don’t like you to stuff dryer sheets in their shoes.
The half-eaten yogurt turned over, over night, in the refrigerator.
Dogs think they are people and won’t eat their dry kibble until you have proved for the fiftieth time that your meat is not for sharing.
What is it about a dog’s butt that is so attractive to them?
The 5-second glue I brought with me had its five seconds about four years ago.
I haven’t bought anything worth hanging up, but I’m still short seven hangers.
Men’s shoes smell … leathery. And women’s don’t.
Men don’t like you to stuff dryer sheets in their shoes.
The half-eaten yogurt turned over, over night, in the refrigerator.
Dogs think they are people and won’t eat their dry kibble until you have proved for the fiftieth time that your meat is not for sharing.
What is it about a dog’s butt that is so attractive to them?
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Collector
Tropicana RV Resort, Granby, Quebec
I am beginning to appreciate this place more and more. It appears that everybody who stays here longer than a day strings up Christmas lights, and there is a real competition for tacky display. The winner by a mile is one Herman Petters, 88 years old, whose mobile home is located at the beginning of all the parking spots. It's more home than mobile, as you will see from the pictures. Carting all his stuff away at the end of the season would take him all winter, so he might as well leave it be.
Herman is married to Marie Beth Guay, who is the mother of her next-door neighbor, Chantal Trepanier and her charming husband Gaetan Chalifoux. Chantal is only 47 and looks even younger. She has four daughters and two grandsons, Jessy James Moffatt and Jeremy Trapanier, who were both with her this day. I persuaded Gaetan, himself the father of two, so doting that he's tatooed their names on his arm, that he need not put a shirt on for me -- I think he was all set to take a shower, shave and put on a whole new set of clothes for this one picture -- so anybody reading this should know that he's a real gentleman.
Such nice people! They even offered me their golf cart to go around and take pictures, but I demurred. Herman's house was all I wanted to remember.
Betty
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Signs of a City
I believe you can tell the character of a city by its signs. Granby Quebec is a city full of signs. And amazingly enough, they're all in French. Imagine Sunrise Highway, or for you Californians, 405 South near Santa Monica, and you get the feel of this place. A sign every 50 feet, and some of them quite imaginative.
From the little I've seen of this town and its people, I am imagining a townfolk with a great sense of humor, a touch of the absurd, and a love of the tackily theatrical. But more on that in my next post.
Betty
From the little I've seen of this town and its people, I am imagining a townfolk with a great sense of humor, a touch of the absurd, and a love of the tackily theatrical. But more on that in my next post.
Betty
No Pressure
Monday, July 28, Granby, Quebec
Water pressure. Now here’s something we can all agree on. When you have it, you take it for granted. When you don’t, it makes you crazy. That being the case, commit me now. Every drop of the precious stuff comes from the hose we are tethered to in the campground. (Except for the bottled water I insist on making coffee with, much to John’s consternation. But hey, hose water for coffee?)
Hose water means, as you know, low water pressure. When it’s direct hose, you can put your finger over the opening and make it squirt at one of the other kids. When it’s RV hose, it is by nature indirect, and you can’t put your finger over anything to make it squirt. It simply wanders, a lot like a little stream occurring in nature.
And that means your hair stays soapy. Your dishes stay soapy. Your dog stays soapy, if you are silly enough to give him a bath in the middle of a muddy campground and should have your head examined.
This morning, a good hard squirt would have taken that coffee stain out of your pajamas right away. Instead, you have to wash them, dry them, fold them and put them away. Now I ask you. What kind of vacation is that?
Betty
Water pressure. Now here’s something we can all agree on. When you have it, you take it for granted. When you don’t, it makes you crazy. That being the case, commit me now. Every drop of the precious stuff comes from the hose we are tethered to in the campground. (Except for the bottled water I insist on making coffee with, much to John’s consternation. But hey, hose water for coffee?)
Hose water means, as you know, low water pressure. When it’s direct hose, you can put your finger over the opening and make it squirt at one of the other kids. When it’s RV hose, it is by nature indirect, and you can’t put your finger over anything to make it squirt. It simply wanders, a lot like a little stream occurring in nature.
And that means your hair stays soapy. Your dishes stay soapy. Your dog stays soapy, if you are silly enough to give him a bath in the middle of a muddy campground and should have your head examined.
This morning, a good hard squirt would have taken that coffee stain out of your pajamas right away. Instead, you have to wash them, dry them, fold them and put them away. Now I ask you. What kind of vacation is that?
Betty
Cheezit
Monday July 28, 2008
We're in Granby, Quebec, in a campground with three million children, most of them cavorting right under my bedroom window. No one here speaks English, at least not the kind that I understand, anyway. It's so cute to hear their allezes and bonjours. Next door to us, there's a dog, a Pug, that wheezes instead of barks. Sounds like he's saying "Cheezit" all the time. Our dog met him yesterday, and they had a good time sniffing each other's nether regions. Then Zeus, who is, after all, 11 and very mature, got bored and walked away. Which is when the Pug said, "Cheezit." You can't make this stuff up.
We're in Granby, Quebec, in a campground with three million children, most of them cavorting right under my bedroom window. No one here speaks English, at least not the kind that I understand, anyway. It's so cute to hear their allezes and bonjours. Next door to us, there's a dog, a Pug, that wheezes instead of barks. Sounds like he's saying "Cheezit" all the time. Our dog met him yesterday, and they had a good time sniffing each other's nether regions. Then Zeus, who is, after all, 11 and very mature, got bored and walked away. Which is when the Pug said, "Cheezit." You can't make this stuff up.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
A Nice Fire
We’re sitting outside at 8:30 on Saturday night. I have on my nightgown, my raincoat and my flipflops. John has built a fire but the $4 worth of wood we bought is wet from the rain, so he’s adding pages of the Woodall Camp Directory, and the (probably mahogany) wood from the built-in television box that we no longer need.
This needs an explanation. We had a perfectly good television in the bedroom, but for some reason John felt the need for a flat-screen TV, so first we got a 19 inch set, which didn’t fit the wood box and showed all the unfinished interior and I got upset so we got another one – at 21”, bigger and more filling, as one might put it. But the frame now didn’t work with the new set, which extends about 2” out at the base, so we took the frame off and are currently burning it in the fire pit. It makes a nice fire.
If you need a schematic to understand this story, please send SASE to me at Box 4886, New York, NY 10163.
Betty
This needs an explanation. We had a perfectly good television in the bedroom, but for some reason John felt the need for a flat-screen TV, so first we got a 19 inch set, which didn’t fit the wood box and showed all the unfinished interior and I got upset so we got another one – at 21”, bigger and more filling, as one might put it. But the frame now didn’t work with the new set, which extends about 2” out at the base, so we took the frame off and are currently burning it in the fire pit. It makes a nice fire.
If you need a schematic to understand this story, please send SASE to me at Box 4886, New York, NY 10163.
Betty
More Than Three Islands After All
Saturday, July 26, The Thousand Islands, NY
Okay, I’ve been properly educated. There are indeed 1000 islands in the Thousand Islands. Actually, there are 1862 of them, as verified by a team from Canada and the US. Incidentally, if I’m off by one, blame the tour boat’s loudspeaker system. What makes an island an island? Two classes of flora, i.e., trees and grass for instance, and it’s got to be above water 365 days of the year. Obviously, Leap Year is a freebie.
This is a beautiful area, and I loved looking at all the tourists and trying to decide where they were from. Of course the bus full of Japanese people was a no-brainer, but the four Lithuanians we sat next to on the boat were a real challenge. When she left, the Mom smiled and remarked, “Have a nice day.” Thirty years ago, my Irish relatives thought it hysterical that they greeted us with “Hi!” Obviously the phrase books have been updated.
Tonight, a big treat. Our favorite rotini with clam sauce. If you’ll recall, that’s one of John’s specialties. Mom’s night off. I’m for that.
Betty
A Few Corrections
Saturday July 26, Clayton, NY, Lake Ontario/St. Lawrence River, Merry Knoll Campground, not Maryknoll and I am not a nun ministering to those poor non-Catholic heathens. And the bar was Mr. Laff's, not Mr Laugh's and Joe Namath didn't own it, some other football players did. Ask my brother Rich; he knows all this trivia stuff.
Now, does everybody know where I am? I apologize for not putting dates and places on these blogs. I guess I'm not as timeless and universal as I thought I was. And I also apologize for putting things out of order at the beginning. I'm new to this blogging thing and I still can't figure out how to change the posts once they've been published. I would also urge you to read some of the comments, especially from my Kiwi cuz Jen and my brother Patrick. Both very funny people, and I do intend to steal their remarks for the book. Also I want to say that I am not now, nor have I been recently, a smoker. The pack of cigarettes thing was for dramatic effect, not that I am in the habit of lying in this blog. Okay, I slipped, okay? It's over and done. I do not smoke. It's a disgusting habit and I do not smoke, okay Jeff, Courtney, Tim? My coffee's ready, and Jeff, coffee is not a drug and I am not addicted. So there.
Betty
Now, does everybody know where I am? I apologize for not putting dates and places on these blogs. I guess I'm not as timeless and universal as I thought I was. And I also apologize for putting things out of order at the beginning. I'm new to this blogging thing and I still can't figure out how to change the posts once they've been published. I would also urge you to read some of the comments, especially from my Kiwi cuz Jen and my brother Patrick. Both very funny people, and I do intend to steal their remarks for the book. Also I want to say that I am not now, nor have I been recently, a smoker. The pack of cigarettes thing was for dramatic effect, not that I am in the habit of lying in this blog. Okay, I slipped, okay? It's over and done. I do not smoke. It's a disgusting habit and I do not smoke, okay Jeff, Courtney, Tim? My coffee's ready, and Jeff, coffee is not a drug and I am not addicted. So there.
Betty
Friday, July 25, 2008
Let's Get This Show on the Road
Friday, July 25, 2 p.m.
We’re at the third garage of the day, this last to pick up the Saturn at old Clyde Moore’s place. Clyde has done as promised and replaced our ABS sensor, so both front and rear brakes now work. We are grateful to him for his insistence on doing the job right, even though it has taken a week out of our … what? We have all the time in the world! No problemo, Clyde.
We go just a short way up the road, about 1½ hours, arriving early at Merry Knoll Campgrounds, situated picturesquely on a hill above the St. Lawrence River/Lake Ontario conjuncture in the Thousand Islands Region. It’s so pretty we decide to stay a couple of days before crossing over into Canada.
We get our spot and John proceeds to hook us up to the necessaries while I defrost a couple of filets for dinner and open all the windows because they charge for air conditioning and we’re not sure we need it. They’re charging for air! It’s our camper, our air conditioner and the way I see it, it’s our air too. Nevertheless, they’re charging.
The dog is having a great time in the camper with his new ball, barking at it and pushing it around. From outside, I hear John saying, “He’s barking too loud.” Barking is barking, isn’t it? Barking is what dogs do when they’re happy. Barking inside a camper can’t be all that bad, can it?
I tell Zeus, “Please, can you modulate that bark?”
Zeus ignores me. Like a cat, he manages to paw the ball out from under the driver’s seat and chases it past me with such joy I am kvelling, which for a Christian is not an easy thing to do. I give it a little kick and he’s off again, barking. I’m happy. Zeus is happy. John leans into the camper and says, “Zeus, stop, please.”
Zeus stops. He adores John. I want to say, “John, stop, please.”
Betty
We’re at the third garage of the day, this last to pick up the Saturn at old Clyde Moore’s place. Clyde has done as promised and replaced our ABS sensor, so both front and rear brakes now work. We are grateful to him for his insistence on doing the job right, even though it has taken a week out of our … what? We have all the time in the world! No problemo, Clyde.
We go just a short way up the road, about 1½ hours, arriving early at Merry Knoll Campgrounds, situated picturesquely on a hill above the St. Lawrence River/Lake Ontario conjuncture in the Thousand Islands Region. It’s so pretty we decide to stay a couple of days before crossing over into Canada.
We get our spot and John proceeds to hook us up to the necessaries while I defrost a couple of filets for dinner and open all the windows because they charge for air conditioning and we’re not sure we need it. They’re charging for air! It’s our camper, our air conditioner and the way I see it, it’s our air too. Nevertheless, they’re charging.
The dog is having a great time in the camper with his new ball, barking at it and pushing it around. From outside, I hear John saying, “He’s barking too loud.” Barking is barking, isn’t it? Barking is what dogs do when they’re happy. Barking inside a camper can’t be all that bad, can it?
I tell Zeus, “Please, can you modulate that bark?”
Zeus ignores me. Like a cat, he manages to paw the ball out from under the driver’s seat and chases it past me with such joy I am kvelling, which for a Christian is not an easy thing to do. I give it a little kick and he’s off again, barking. I’m happy. Zeus is happy. John leans into the camper and says, “Zeus, stop, please.”
Zeus stops. He adores John. I want to say, “John, stop, please.”
Betty
I'm a Girl Again
July 23, 2008
I’m a girl again. I have perfume on. A low-cut dress and sexy bra underneath. I have on real diamonds and a fake Rolex. I have rings on my fingers and I’ve straightened my hair from its natural frizzbomb state. I put on mascara and eye shadow. I have everything girly I can have on and even my legs are smooth and silky. But one thing is a compromise: I have on my rubber Crocs sandals. This shooting ground is muck and mire as far as the eye can see. We’re going to dinner with a shooting friend of John’s, a nice Italian place we visited last week when we were getting the camper estimated for repairs. Now we’re back for measuring.
But I’m smarter now. I rented a car which will be delivered to me tomorrow morning, and while John is canoodling with his shooting buddies, and getting some last-gasp adjustments to things like the satellite system etc., I’m going to the mall. I’m headed for the nail salon to fix my broken thumbnail and feel like a girl for another day. My shopping list includes another strapless bra, a pretty top, and just maybe a set of hot rollers.
Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Betty
I’m a girl again. I have perfume on. A low-cut dress and sexy bra underneath. I have on real diamonds and a fake Rolex. I have rings on my fingers and I’ve straightened my hair from its natural frizzbomb state. I put on mascara and eye shadow. I have everything girly I can have on and even my legs are smooth and silky. But one thing is a compromise: I have on my rubber Crocs sandals. This shooting ground is muck and mire as far as the eye can see. We’re going to dinner with a shooting friend of John’s, a nice Italian place we visited last week when we were getting the camper estimated for repairs. Now we’re back for measuring.
But I’m smarter now. I rented a car which will be delivered to me tomorrow morning, and while John is canoodling with his shooting buddies, and getting some last-gasp adjustments to things like the satellite system etc., I’m going to the mall. I’m headed for the nail salon to fix my broken thumbnail and feel like a girl for another day. My shopping list includes another strapless bra, a pretty top, and just maybe a set of hot rollers.
Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Betty
BA in RV
July 23, in motion.
I think I’m going to create a course, no-credit of course, for RVers. It will include such subjects as Sweeping the Rug, Sweeping the Rug While Searching for a Broken Fingernail, (part of a $60 Pink and White Gel Manicure, a desperate attempt to hold on to my grooming while setting off in a machine determined to undermine same).
Other valuable lessons will include Sandwich Making While in Motion, with a graduate course in Staying Upright (with credit going towards a degree in New York City Subway Riding). Making the Bed on One’s Knees, How to Keep Sponges from Turning Black with Mold (when I perfect this technique, this course will be offered, but right now it’s a TBD), Rules for Sliders (do not pull in slider before checking the dog’s dish or you’ll have water all over the floor; do not put out slider next to a tree without checking first; do not stand too close to slider in motion in bare feet, etc.)
I could probably include a course having to do with driving this thing, but while I’m an expert backseat driver, I’m still only permitted on the wide-open road and there isn’t much skill to that.
Betty
I think I’m going to create a course, no-credit of course, for RVers. It will include such subjects as Sweeping the Rug, Sweeping the Rug While Searching for a Broken Fingernail, (part of a $60 Pink and White Gel Manicure, a desperate attempt to hold on to my grooming while setting off in a machine determined to undermine same).
Other valuable lessons will include Sandwich Making While in Motion, with a graduate course in Staying Upright (with credit going towards a degree in New York City Subway Riding). Making the Bed on One’s Knees, How to Keep Sponges from Turning Black with Mold (when I perfect this technique, this course will be offered, but right now it’s a TBD), Rules for Sliders (do not pull in slider before checking the dog’s dish or you’ll have water all over the floor; do not put out slider next to a tree without checking first; do not stand too close to slider in motion in bare feet, etc.)
I could probably include a course having to do with driving this thing, but while I’m an expert backseat driver, I’m still only permitted on the wide-open road and there isn’t much skill to that.
Betty
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Bug Off! She Said
We had a great day Monday, our first day free of incidents in over a week. Did a little food shopping, bought a pair of shorts at WalMart for $8 – reduced from $10! – came home, wrote a little bit, had some wine, made a great late dinner of ribs and the best corn I’ve ever eaten, took a nice long walk and headed back to watch some TV before bedtime.
Then the plague struck. Somehow, when we weren’t looking, at least ten million tiny little gnats, as I called them when I was a child, or no-see-ems, as I’ve also heard them called, invaded our RV. They were everywhere! In my hair, up my nose, on my computer screen, on the TV screen, in the food, surrounding every light source, coating the ceiling, everywhere.
John grabbed the fly swatter and started systematically – and quite gently, I might add – beating the little suckers to death. He swatted for about 15 minutes, got winded, and handed the tool to me. I took up the cause. There were bodies all over. On the floor, in my hair, as I’ve said, in our clothing, in the cherries we’d so merrily plopped in a bowl to snack on, on every piece of furniture, and to add insult to injury, even some on the poor dog, who hadn’t so much as barked at them.
And let me tell you something. Bug repellant doesn’t kill these things. I sprayed half a can at them and they simply kept flying. They laughed in my face, spit in my eye, and, as Monty Python once said in a movie, “peesed in my general direction.”
Fortunately and for some strange reason, they never entered the bedroom, so we escaped to our nest and kept the door closed. That’s when a skunk decided to take up residence underneath the camper.
Now here’s another learnin’ for you: skunks don’t have to raise their tails and squirt their scent at anything to stink. They just do. All the time. Skunk smell gets into your pores and invades your nose and sticks around long after Pepe Le Pew has departed. And for me, that means no sleep. My nose is closed with an allergic reaction to the smell, my skins feels all itchy and buggy from the gnats, and I just took a Tylenol PM to get to sleep.
So while I wait for the soporific to work, I’m sitting here writing, wondering if there’s another pestilence due me before dawn. There are at least 15 no-see-ems dancing around my computer screen, despite the fact that I smell of bug repellent. The arrogant little bastards. Just wait until tomorrow. I’m going to the store for some Raid Yard Guard and spraying this entire RV, inside and out. They’ll be some sorry little critters, that’s all I have to say.
Betty
Then the plague struck. Somehow, when we weren’t looking, at least ten million tiny little gnats, as I called them when I was a child, or no-see-ems, as I’ve also heard them called, invaded our RV. They were everywhere! In my hair, up my nose, on my computer screen, on the TV screen, in the food, surrounding every light source, coating the ceiling, everywhere.
John grabbed the fly swatter and started systematically – and quite gently, I might add – beating the little suckers to death. He swatted for about 15 minutes, got winded, and handed the tool to me. I took up the cause. There were bodies all over. On the floor, in my hair, as I’ve said, in our clothing, in the cherries we’d so merrily plopped in a bowl to snack on, on every piece of furniture, and to add insult to injury, even some on the poor dog, who hadn’t so much as barked at them.
And let me tell you something. Bug repellant doesn’t kill these things. I sprayed half a can at them and they simply kept flying. They laughed in my face, spit in my eye, and, as Monty Python once said in a movie, “peesed in my general direction.”
Fortunately and for some strange reason, they never entered the bedroom, so we escaped to our nest and kept the door closed. That’s when a skunk decided to take up residence underneath the camper.
Now here’s another learnin’ for you: skunks don’t have to raise their tails and squirt their scent at anything to stink. They just do. All the time. Skunk smell gets into your pores and invades your nose and sticks around long after Pepe Le Pew has departed. And for me, that means no sleep. My nose is closed with an allergic reaction to the smell, my skins feels all itchy and buggy from the gnats, and I just took a Tylenol PM to get to sleep.
So while I wait for the soporific to work, I’m sitting here writing, wondering if there’s another pestilence due me before dawn. There are at least 15 no-see-ems dancing around my computer screen, despite the fact that I smell of bug repellent. The arrogant little bastards. Just wait until tomorrow. I’m going to the store for some Raid Yard Guard and spraying this entire RV, inside and out. They’ll be some sorry little critters, that’s all I have to say.
Betty
That Man O Mine
What kind of a guy would put up with me on a two-year trek around the country? The same one who’s been gracious enough to stay married to me for 40 years.
We were city folk when we met, John having moved to New York from Stamford, CT, at age 11 when his parents divorced. I was the suburban girl who longed for the bright lights and big job in the city, who moved into her own apartment at age 23 and subsequently spent almost every weekend at home because I missed my big, noisy family. My littlest sister was only three, and I worried about missing her growing years.
I met John in a Manhattan bar called Mr. Laugh’s, owned at the time by Joe Namath and a couple of other football players. It was a gentler time then, and you could meet someone and talk with him all night without being labeled “easy.”
I liked him right away. He was genuine, funny and easy to talk with. But he was going to be my friend while I searched for Mr. Right. Two years later, I realized I had Mr. Right right at my side, so I married him.
We had two boys, Jonathan and Jeff, a dog named Fluffy, and a perfect life. We moved to Tarrytown, where we lived for 25 years. At a certain point, John lost his job, so I bit the bullet and went back into advertising, a big decision for me, since I was old-school, and thought I should stay home to raise my kids.
John adapted well to Mr. Mom. He set about building a new business from home, and took over almost all of the child-rearing, even making the dinners he knew well – pork chops, steak, spaghetti with clam sauce, and American pizzas – on a rotating basis. I never got home until seven at night, at the earliest, so I was happy to have dinner waiting, but Jeff to this day will refuse these delights in favor of veggie dinners, fish and anything but pork chops. Too much of a good thing, I guess.
John’s business failed due to an inability to get growth money – he grew so fast, his credit line couldn’t support the number of orders he was taking in, and his was a credit-driven mail-order business. A shame when your very success is your undoing.
So after a few really low months, he picked himself up and launched himself as a salesman to the catalogs he once competed with. He’s a great salesman, I was to learn. His genuineness and lack of pretension made him trustworthy and his experience in creating his own catalogs made him a valued advisor.
Not only that, he had a honey of a commute. Down the hall to his office in his pj’s and slippers. I used to tell him I wanted his life.
So far, I’ve told you about his strong points. Honesty, truthfulness, humor, wit, adaptability. But, hey, he’s a man, so he’s immediately not perfect. He thought housework was for women, even when I was working 12-hour days. He could easily sit and watch me scrub windows, wash toilets and vacuum rugs on my day off.
He gets grumpy and refuses to say why. Most men do, and most women can’t stand that. They’ll ask again and again for an explanation, and only succeed in making Mr. Grumpy grumpier. Then when we become frustrated and angry and explode in exasperation, Mr. Grumpy becomes Happy Hooligan, all smiles and confused about our “sudden” moodiness. “PMS?” I was asked more than once in my lifetime. Which of course only made me more furious. Being asked, “Menopause?” didn’t make it any different, just older.
John liked, in this order, our kids, shooting trap, the NY Giants, Frozen Milky Ways, and me.
Then life changed in an awful way. In June of 1994, our eldest son, Jonathan, having been diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia a couple of months earlier, took his life. He was 23.
No parent should lose a child, for any reason, and certainly not John, who by any standards, was the father every kid should have. Warm and loving, a den mother, ball-tosser, hockey father, dog-walker when the kids had too much homework, pinewood derby car-whittler, Christmas tree buyer, pork chop maker, church escort (and he’s Jewish), confidante, back-rubber, he was everything to his kids, and they to him.
86% of people who lose a child end up divorced. The pain and the blame are too much to bear. We determined not to be a statistic. We went to counseling together and learned to let each other grieve at his own pace. We were kind to each other, we cried openly and unashamedly for years, and we never fought. We worked on helping Jeff to understand that he didn’t have to be two sons to us, now that the family had lost his brother and best friend. Jeff, by the way, is an amazing human being. Strong, very very funny, sweet and incredibly nurturing. Like his father.
We moved to a new, big, beautiful, serene home. It was bright and sunny and helped us heal. John could work in a sunny room instead of a dark basement, and I could grow thousands of flowers, which the deer promptly consumed.
Then three years ago, John decided, perhaps because this loss gave him a new take on life, or maybe just because we were getting older (and less well-to-do), that we should downsize, I should quit my established, successful business, and we should live simply and less extravagantly.
Oh yes, we had been treating ourselves well. We had the money, and we deserved it after all we’d been through. We had four cars including a Lexus and a BMW, a truck and a station wagon. We took vacations regularly, bought time-shares in Mexico, and even had a luxurious condo on the river that we rented out when it became clear that no way was I moving from my home. I owned a business, wore a fur coat and diamonds. We had flowers delivered regularly.
John became obsessed with our financial situation. More money was going out than was coming in. His sales business was slowing down dramatically, he felt old going to call on young twenty-somethings, and I was out of the house all the time. We fought, went to counseling, made up and fought some more. I promised to retire at 65, then worked another year beyond that. We put the house on the market, finally, and the market took a downturn. He worried all the time. He became diffident, angry, frustrated and a person I tiptoed around. I still loved him, but at times I didn’t like him very much.
We sold the condo, and then after three years on the market, somebody wanted our house. Life was about to change, and dramatically. I couldn’t hold my ground any longer. I brought home a bottle of champagne, sat him down and told him, “Okay, let’s do it your way.”
So here we are, doing it his way. We sold everything except for our mattress and a few antiques, bought this bloody big RV with everything you could want in the way of creature comforts, I turned my interest in the business over to my partner, had a great big retirement party, and a week later got on the road with a new man.
John’s the new man. He’s like a little kid. No, he’s like the guy I married so long ago. Happy, funny, taking life in stride, no more grumps, no more worries. He sits at his computer, maps and guides surrounding him, and plans out our next stops. I hate that kind of thing, so I’m glad somebody’s doing it.
He does most of the driving, half of the housework, what little there is, all of the barbecuing, all of the setting up, including the dreaded yucky dump station thing, most of the dog-walking and all of the fixing, lugging, and even some of the bed-making. (I still do it better.) He also finds things to keep himself busy while I’m incommunicado here at my work station on the picnic table under the awning, my diet coke on one side, and my last (I swear) pack of cigarettes on the other.
Oh make no mistake, the guns are in the camper, and I’m sure we’ll hit our share of shooting tournaments. I’ll be on the sidelines, bored to tears, probably, but I have this beautiful new laptop, a gift from my dear partner Frank, and all the time in the world to write about how it’s not such a bad thing to chuck it all and live the simple life.
Live and learn.
Betty
We were city folk when we met, John having moved to New York from Stamford, CT, at age 11 when his parents divorced. I was the suburban girl who longed for the bright lights and big job in the city, who moved into her own apartment at age 23 and subsequently spent almost every weekend at home because I missed my big, noisy family. My littlest sister was only three, and I worried about missing her growing years.
I met John in a Manhattan bar called Mr. Laugh’s, owned at the time by Joe Namath and a couple of other football players. It was a gentler time then, and you could meet someone and talk with him all night without being labeled “easy.”
I liked him right away. He was genuine, funny and easy to talk with. But he was going to be my friend while I searched for Mr. Right. Two years later, I realized I had Mr. Right right at my side, so I married him.
We had two boys, Jonathan and Jeff, a dog named Fluffy, and a perfect life. We moved to Tarrytown, where we lived for 25 years. At a certain point, John lost his job, so I bit the bullet and went back into advertising, a big decision for me, since I was old-school, and thought I should stay home to raise my kids.
John adapted well to Mr. Mom. He set about building a new business from home, and took over almost all of the child-rearing, even making the dinners he knew well – pork chops, steak, spaghetti with clam sauce, and American pizzas – on a rotating basis. I never got home until seven at night, at the earliest, so I was happy to have dinner waiting, but Jeff to this day will refuse these delights in favor of veggie dinners, fish and anything but pork chops. Too much of a good thing, I guess.
John’s business failed due to an inability to get growth money – he grew so fast, his credit line couldn’t support the number of orders he was taking in, and his was a credit-driven mail-order business. A shame when your very success is your undoing.
So after a few really low months, he picked himself up and launched himself as a salesman to the catalogs he once competed with. He’s a great salesman, I was to learn. His genuineness and lack of pretension made him trustworthy and his experience in creating his own catalogs made him a valued advisor.
Not only that, he had a honey of a commute. Down the hall to his office in his pj’s and slippers. I used to tell him I wanted his life.
So far, I’ve told you about his strong points. Honesty, truthfulness, humor, wit, adaptability. But, hey, he’s a man, so he’s immediately not perfect. He thought housework was for women, even when I was working 12-hour days. He could easily sit and watch me scrub windows, wash toilets and vacuum rugs on my day off.
He gets grumpy and refuses to say why. Most men do, and most women can’t stand that. They’ll ask again and again for an explanation, and only succeed in making Mr. Grumpy grumpier. Then when we become frustrated and angry and explode in exasperation, Mr. Grumpy becomes Happy Hooligan, all smiles and confused about our “sudden” moodiness. “PMS?” I was asked more than once in my lifetime. Which of course only made me more furious. Being asked, “Menopause?” didn’t make it any different, just older.
John liked, in this order, our kids, shooting trap, the NY Giants, Frozen Milky Ways, and me.
Then life changed in an awful way. In June of 1994, our eldest son, Jonathan, having been diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia a couple of months earlier, took his life. He was 23.
No parent should lose a child, for any reason, and certainly not John, who by any standards, was the father every kid should have. Warm and loving, a den mother, ball-tosser, hockey father, dog-walker when the kids had too much homework, pinewood derby car-whittler, Christmas tree buyer, pork chop maker, church escort (and he’s Jewish), confidante, back-rubber, he was everything to his kids, and they to him.
86% of people who lose a child end up divorced. The pain and the blame are too much to bear. We determined not to be a statistic. We went to counseling together and learned to let each other grieve at his own pace. We were kind to each other, we cried openly and unashamedly for years, and we never fought. We worked on helping Jeff to understand that he didn’t have to be two sons to us, now that the family had lost his brother and best friend. Jeff, by the way, is an amazing human being. Strong, very very funny, sweet and incredibly nurturing. Like his father.
We moved to a new, big, beautiful, serene home. It was bright and sunny and helped us heal. John could work in a sunny room instead of a dark basement, and I could grow thousands of flowers, which the deer promptly consumed.
Then three years ago, John decided, perhaps because this loss gave him a new take on life, or maybe just because we were getting older (and less well-to-do), that we should downsize, I should quit my established, successful business, and we should live simply and less extravagantly.
Oh yes, we had been treating ourselves well. We had the money, and we deserved it after all we’d been through. We had four cars including a Lexus and a BMW, a truck and a station wagon. We took vacations regularly, bought time-shares in Mexico, and even had a luxurious condo on the river that we rented out when it became clear that no way was I moving from my home. I owned a business, wore a fur coat and diamonds. We had flowers delivered regularly.
John became obsessed with our financial situation. More money was going out than was coming in. His sales business was slowing down dramatically, he felt old going to call on young twenty-somethings, and I was out of the house all the time. We fought, went to counseling, made up and fought some more. I promised to retire at 65, then worked another year beyond that. We put the house on the market, finally, and the market took a downturn. He worried all the time. He became diffident, angry, frustrated and a person I tiptoed around. I still loved him, but at times I didn’t like him very much.
We sold the condo, and then after three years on the market, somebody wanted our house. Life was about to change, and dramatically. I couldn’t hold my ground any longer. I brought home a bottle of champagne, sat him down and told him, “Okay, let’s do it your way.”
So here we are, doing it his way. We sold everything except for our mattress and a few antiques, bought this bloody big RV with everything you could want in the way of creature comforts, I turned my interest in the business over to my partner, had a great big retirement party, and a week later got on the road with a new man.
John’s the new man. He’s like a little kid. No, he’s like the guy I married so long ago. Happy, funny, taking life in stride, no more grumps, no more worries. He sits at his computer, maps and guides surrounding him, and plans out our next stops. I hate that kind of thing, so I’m glad somebody’s doing it.
He does most of the driving, half of the housework, what little there is, all of the barbecuing, all of the setting up, including the dreaded yucky dump station thing, most of the dog-walking and all of the fixing, lugging, and even some of the bed-making. (I still do it better.) He also finds things to keep himself busy while I’m incommunicado here at my work station on the picnic table under the awning, my diet coke on one side, and my last (I swear) pack of cigarettes on the other.
Oh make no mistake, the guns are in the camper, and I’m sure we’ll hit our share of shooting tournaments. I’ll be on the sidelines, bored to tears, probably, but I have this beautiful new laptop, a gift from my dear partner Frank, and all the time in the world to write about how it’s not such a bad thing to chuck it all and live the simple life.
Live and learn.
Betty
RVing in the Rain
When it’s raining and you’re in an RV, it’s not great. The air conditioning only chills everything damp inside, your fingers stick to the keyboard, your hair turns into what I call a frizzbomb – unless you’re John, of course, and then your pate sweats – and you feel like a little kid trapped inside on a – you guessed it – rainy day.
But wait. There’s a little kid here who doesn’t seem to know it’s raining. He’s all of about four years old, and for the second day in a row, he’s on his two-wheeler with the twelve-inch tires. He’s been circling our RV on the little ring road for at least three hours. And he’s singing. It’s his own song, a kind of primeval cycler’s chant about goin’ fast, speedin’ along and catching the bad guys. And he has inserted grunts, tweets and war cries into his ode. A mini-Thor, he is unstoppable, not that anyone with half a heart would want to shut this little dynamo down.
Last night, he and his elder brother, aged 6 or so, spent an hour stomping in the mini-lake created next to our RV in their shorts and sandals. This morning, Mom sent them out with boots on.
On the other side of us, a couple of spots away (fortunately), two families with a total of 9 children are toughing out the rain too. The Dads have organized Dad entertainment for the kids, like stacking wood in the back of the truck and putting bikes under the awning. One little guy has a small axe and has been hammering pegs anywhere he finds them.
Maybe I should have organized Mom entertainment for my kids on rainy days. Like ironing, dish washing, vacuuming. They would have had a ball.
Just now, I spotted all 9 kids on bikes, or rather all 7 on bikes, the six-month-old twins in a covered two-wheeled pram pulled by the eldest, a girl of about 11.
The bottom line here is, while I was sitting in my RV, bemoaning the weather and the fact that now I had nothing to do at all, these kids were making the most of it. Another lesson from the universe. Keep ‘em coming.
Betty
Simple Folk
Monday, July 21, 2008
We stopped by the garage this morning to see when the Saturn would be ready. " Garage" is a bit of overpromise. It’s a re-purposed small ramshackle barn, with two bays, one lift, and the requisite broken-down trucks parked on the grass on either side. It was raining, so I stayed in the car while John went to talk to Clyde, whichever one of the three workers he was.
The house next to the barn seemed his likely living quarters, a two-story box of early 1900 vintage – maybe even late 1800’s. Like the barn, it was grey and faded, with siding missing here and there, and a patched roof. One window had a plywood fill, and the other had a bedspread tacked over it. Clearly we were Clyde’s biggest customer in some time.
From the garage, a woman with long auburn hair and bare feet blackened with – what, tar? -- sauntered over to me, an old dog at her side. She was clearly Mrs. Clyde, out for a tete-a-tete with husband in the garage, and she looked so much like her daughter, Jeane, pronounced jenay, that I smiled and rolled down the window at her approach. I remarked that she and Jeane could be sisters, so noticeable was the resemblance. She smiled, revealing her missing front teeth and others soon to follow, and said with a slight French-Canadian lilt, “I got another one like her, when she broke her ankle, the doctor asked if they was twins. Ere’s five years between em, huh. That’s how they’s look so much alike.”
Clyde joined her at my window and introduced himself. A foot shorter than she, he was older, rounder and just as pleasant. He reached in and shook my hand, then asked me to do him a favor: follow his hand. He waved his hand in front of my face, told me to follow his movement, then stopped and said, “Now you’re pasteurized.” (Past your eyes, get it?) I howled with laughter as he accepted my reaction with pleased confirmation.
These simple people, with obviously little in the way of wordly goods, have managed to raise a lovely, well-spoken daughter and put her through college, likely will do the same for “the other one like her,” and are obviously loving and happy people. It was a lesson in the value of simplicity and testament to the total uselessness of cynicism.
The car will be ready late today, or failing that, early tomorrow morning. I can wait.
Betty
We stopped by the garage this morning to see when the Saturn would be ready. " Garage" is a bit of overpromise. It’s a re-purposed small ramshackle barn, with two bays, one lift, and the requisite broken-down trucks parked on the grass on either side. It was raining, so I stayed in the car while John went to talk to Clyde, whichever one of the three workers he was.
The house next to the barn seemed his likely living quarters, a two-story box of early 1900 vintage – maybe even late 1800’s. Like the barn, it was grey and faded, with siding missing here and there, and a patched roof. One window had a plywood fill, and the other had a bedspread tacked over it. Clearly we were Clyde’s biggest customer in some time.
From the garage, a woman with long auburn hair and bare feet blackened with – what, tar? -- sauntered over to me, an old dog at her side. She was clearly Mrs. Clyde, out for a tete-a-tete with husband in the garage, and she looked so much like her daughter, Jeane, pronounced jenay, that I smiled and rolled down the window at her approach. I remarked that she and Jeane could be sisters, so noticeable was the resemblance. She smiled, revealing her missing front teeth and others soon to follow, and said with a slight French-Canadian lilt, “I got another one like her, when she broke her ankle, the doctor asked if they was twins. Ere’s five years between em, huh. That’s how they’s look so much alike.”
Clyde joined her at my window and introduced himself. A foot shorter than she, he was older, rounder and just as pleasant. He reached in and shook my hand, then asked me to do him a favor: follow his hand. He waved his hand in front of my face, told me to follow his movement, then stopped and said, “Now you’re pasteurized.” (Past your eyes, get it?) I howled with laughter as he accepted my reaction with pleased confirmation.
These simple people, with obviously little in the way of wordly goods, have managed to raise a lovely, well-spoken daughter and put her through college, likely will do the same for “the other one like her,” and are obviously loving and happy people. It was a lesson in the value of simplicity and testament to the total uselessness of cynicism.
The car will be ready late today, or failing that, early tomorrow morning. I can wait.
Betty
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Missing Things
The Rent a Wreck is nicer than our Buy a Disaster, clean and recent of vintage, and its wheels appear not to be on fire. We’re headed for the 37th Can-Am Festival in Sackets Harbor, to celebrate “Two Nations Side by Side, Neighbors in Peace Abide and Liberty.” A nice thought, even if the poetry doesn’t quite scan.
Zeus is wet and grungy from his dip in Lake Ontario, and I’m sure he’ll use our silk bedspread (don’t ask) to dry off in our absence. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to a day without doggy. This is more animal togetherness than I’m used to.
Speaking of what I’m used to, I realize I miss my friends in the office for more reasons than just the sweetness of family I enjoyed for 11 years. Tony, my technologically gifted go-to guy, would have been able to get my NY Times Crossword, a daily addiction, open in something other than Word, which gives me the puzzle in binary code instead of a grid. Something about a program I was supposed to download first.
My adopted son and best boy Jim, who writes, edits and is otherwise a profoundly funny guy, would have figured out my coffee maker and shown me how much coffee to load so that I didn’t get tan water for my morning brew.
Wende and Pat, producers extraordinaire, my best galpals and greatest supporters, would have the inside scoop on everything, and I do mean everything, worth knowing.
And Frank, my prodigiously talented partner and the Bad Cop of our Good-Cop-Bad-Cop routine – except when I take on Bad Cop and surprise the hell out of everybody including myself -- would be hard at work beating me to the finish line on the puzzle every time.
Chris and Ryan, two of the most decent, funniest, most creative and dearest people I know, would be doing all the work and making me proud of our DeVito Fitterman advertising creative, and Teri, so sincere and so earnest, would be hard at work trying to explain her accounting practices to Frank as he swept through 68 Across for the checkered flag.
I miss you guys.
Betty
Zeus is wet and grungy from his dip in Lake Ontario, and I’m sure he’ll use our silk bedspread (don’t ask) to dry off in our absence. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to a day without doggy. This is more animal togetherness than I’m used to.
Speaking of what I’m used to, I realize I miss my friends in the office for more reasons than just the sweetness of family I enjoyed for 11 years. Tony, my technologically gifted go-to guy, would have been able to get my NY Times Crossword, a daily addiction, open in something other than Word, which gives me the puzzle in binary code instead of a grid. Something about a program I was supposed to download first.
My adopted son and best boy Jim, who writes, edits and is otherwise a profoundly funny guy, would have figured out my coffee maker and shown me how much coffee to load so that I didn’t get tan water for my morning brew.
Wende and Pat, producers extraordinaire, my best galpals and greatest supporters, would have the inside scoop on everything, and I do mean everything, worth knowing.
And Frank, my prodigiously talented partner and the Bad Cop of our Good-Cop-Bad-Cop routine – except when I take on Bad Cop and surprise the hell out of everybody including myself -- would be hard at work beating me to the finish line on the puzzle every time.
Chris and Ryan, two of the most decent, funniest, most creative and dearest people I know, would be doing all the work and making me proud of our DeVito Fitterman advertising creative, and Teri, so sincere and so earnest, would be hard at work trying to explain her accounting practices to Frank as he swept through 68 Across for the checkered flag.
I miss you guys.
Betty
Friday, July 18, 2008
July 17 Syracuse
The car we are pulling is a 1999 Saturn, chosen because it is one of the few cars to earn “tows well with others” in kindergarten. This morning John ran out for coffee – we haven’t bought a coffee maker yet – at the local Dunkin’ Donuts, and noticed its check- engine light was on.
The insurance estimator dropped by to assess the damage to the RV, and he recommended a local repair shop for the Saturn. $1,102 later, we have two new oxygen sensors, a minor transmission overhaul and four new tires. Who knew cars needed oxygen? I thought only humans needed oxygen. And we don’t even have sensors. We just inhale and there it is. Apparently cars are more complex than us mere mortals. I have to admit, it did ride better on new tires, and it didn’t cough once on the way back to our camping spot.
We’re on the grounds of the headquarters of the New York State Amateur Trap Association in Cicero, NY. It’s grassy and treeless as far as the eye can see. At the far end of the range, several backhoes are scooping up great mounds of dirt, which will be sifted for shot and sold to battery companies who will convert it back into lead. Why they want this is a mystery to me, but I’m glad they’re recycling anyway.
After the adjuster left, we went to the Carousel Mall for some needed supplies, including a new pair of sunglasses, ate in the food court and immediately felt queasy. It was a get-things-done day, and I am longing for a run-in with Mother Nature instead of Quiznos and Sunglass Hut, but we will be out of here in the morning and headed for the Thousand Islands.
That’s not to say I didn’t encounter a little nature today. I walked the dog in the morning and nearly tripped over the carcass of a ten-foot snake of indeterminate type. Okay, maybe it was three feet and not ten, but I do not like snakes even if they’ve been dead for a week.
We bought a couple of big steaks and a new grill today, as well as six huge tomatoes – the heck with salmonella; summer tomatoes are not to be missed. I had planned an alfresco dinner complete with wine and the good dishes, but John took a curb today and all the dishes fell out of the cabinet, so we’re going out for Italian instead.
You kind of have to ease into this camping thing.
John, who has not stopped tinkering, just asked me to get him an Allen wrench. “What does it look like?” I asked. “Like an L,” he said. “So why don’t they call it an Ellen wrench?” I quipped. Fresh air and sunshine can make you incredibly witty.
Betty
The insurance estimator dropped by to assess the damage to the RV, and he recommended a local repair shop for the Saturn. $1,102 later, we have two new oxygen sensors, a minor transmission overhaul and four new tires. Who knew cars needed oxygen? I thought only humans needed oxygen. And we don’t even have sensors. We just inhale and there it is. Apparently cars are more complex than us mere mortals. I have to admit, it did ride better on new tires, and it didn’t cough once on the way back to our camping spot.
We’re on the grounds of the headquarters of the New York State Amateur Trap Association in Cicero, NY. It’s grassy and treeless as far as the eye can see. At the far end of the range, several backhoes are scooping up great mounds of dirt, which will be sifted for shot and sold to battery companies who will convert it back into lead. Why they want this is a mystery to me, but I’m glad they’re recycling anyway.
After the adjuster left, we went to the Carousel Mall for some needed supplies, including a new pair of sunglasses, ate in the food court and immediately felt queasy. It was a get-things-done day, and I am longing for a run-in with Mother Nature instead of Quiznos and Sunglass Hut, but we will be out of here in the morning and headed for the Thousand Islands.
That’s not to say I didn’t encounter a little nature today. I walked the dog in the morning and nearly tripped over the carcass of a ten-foot snake of indeterminate type. Okay, maybe it was three feet and not ten, but I do not like snakes even if they’ve been dead for a week.
We bought a couple of big steaks and a new grill today, as well as six huge tomatoes – the heck with salmonella; summer tomatoes are not to be missed. I had planned an alfresco dinner complete with wine and the good dishes, but John took a curb today and all the dishes fell out of the cabinet, so we’re going out for Italian instead.
You kind of have to ease into this camping thing.
John, who has not stopped tinkering, just asked me to get him an Allen wrench. “What does it look like?” I asked. “Like an L,” he said. “So why don’t they call it an Ellen wrench?” I quipped. Fresh air and sunshine can make you incredibly witty.
Betty
Tow Car Travails
Last night John said, “Well, I guess all the mishaps are over, and from now on it’s smooth sailing.” I’m not the pessimist in this group of two, but I wished he hadn’t said that.
So we’re driving along Route 81, headed for the Thousand Islands, when this couple in an SUV pulls along side of us, frantically signaling for us to pull over. A young guy in a blue golf shirt – thank you, young guy, wherever you are – and tells us our tow car is smoking something fierce. John jumps out to see what the trouble can be, and before I can trail behind him, he’s back for the fire extinguisher.
Seems our Brake Buddy system has been applying the brake in the car non-stop for over an hour, the brake linings are on fire, the inflator nipples have melted off and two of our brand new tires are likely ruined. We stand there and gaze in wonder. What in god’s name is the universe trying to tell us? Get out while you can? Get thee hence to a WalMart and apply for a job, you slackers? We look at each other and smile. It doesn’t get much more ridiculous than this.
An hour later, we pull into the RV resort, its own island in Lake Ontario. We make a call to Clive the Camel, as he introduces himself over the phone, and arrange for our crippled car to be hauled away and fixed. By Monday. This is Friday. We’ll see. Turns out Clive’s daughter works for the resort, and her boss, Paul, is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. While he regales us with other RV horror stories, his huge belly shaking with laughter, the very definition of jolly, I take note of the strong winds coming off the lake, and seeing a news clipping about the recent rescue of three, no-doubt-strong, men, I mentally decide kayaking is not for me. Not here, not now, no way. It may be a lake, but the damn thing has whitecaps.
Assured by Clive that we need not wait at the gate of the resort for him to pick up our ailing car, we leave the keys in the ignition and marvel at the Honor System of rural America, so missing from our New York lives. We drive the RV to our spot, not exactly on the water, but with a good view, and I settle in to housewifery, making giant sandwiches for lunch.
An hour later it dawns on us. The brand new barbecue we bought yesterday to make those lovely 2” steaks is in the trunk of the car. In fact, the steaks and some hot dogs are all we have to eat between now and Monday. Which is fine, because we have no way to cook them anyway. Looks like it’s going to be Oreos and wine for the weekend. (I’m keeping it a secret, but there’s a doggy bag full of broiled salmon in the refrigerator from my dinner last night, which hopefully, John has forgotten about. I’ll be sneaking out of bed at two in the morning to feed my grumbling stomach.)
(Unplanned Cost of Retirement so far: $15,102 + TBD by Clive the Camel.)
Betty
So we’re driving along Route 81, headed for the Thousand Islands, when this couple in an SUV pulls along side of us, frantically signaling for us to pull over. A young guy in a blue golf shirt – thank you, young guy, wherever you are – and tells us our tow car is smoking something fierce. John jumps out to see what the trouble can be, and before I can trail behind him, he’s back for the fire extinguisher.
Seems our Brake Buddy system has been applying the brake in the car non-stop for over an hour, the brake linings are on fire, the inflator nipples have melted off and two of our brand new tires are likely ruined. We stand there and gaze in wonder. What in god’s name is the universe trying to tell us? Get out while you can? Get thee hence to a WalMart and apply for a job, you slackers? We look at each other and smile. It doesn’t get much more ridiculous than this.
An hour later, we pull into the RV resort, its own island in Lake Ontario. We make a call to Clive the Camel, as he introduces himself over the phone, and arrange for our crippled car to be hauled away and fixed. By Monday. This is Friday. We’ll see. Turns out Clive’s daughter works for the resort, and her boss, Paul, is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. While he regales us with other RV horror stories, his huge belly shaking with laughter, the very definition of jolly, I take note of the strong winds coming off the lake, and seeing a news clipping about the recent rescue of three, no-doubt-strong, men, I mentally decide kayaking is not for me. Not here, not now, no way. It may be a lake, but the damn thing has whitecaps.
Assured by Clive that we need not wait at the gate of the resort for him to pick up our ailing car, we leave the keys in the ignition and marvel at the Honor System of rural America, so missing from our New York lives. We drive the RV to our spot, not exactly on the water, but with a good view, and I settle in to housewifery, making giant sandwiches for lunch.
An hour later it dawns on us. The brand new barbecue we bought yesterday to make those lovely 2” steaks is in the trunk of the car. In fact, the steaks and some hot dogs are all we have to eat between now and Monday. Which is fine, because we have no way to cook them anyway. Looks like it’s going to be Oreos and wine for the weekend. (I’m keeping it a secret, but there’s a doggy bag full of broiled salmon in the refrigerator from my dinner last night, which hopefully, John has forgotten about. I’ll be sneaking out of bed at two in the morning to feed my grumbling stomach.)
(Unplanned Cost of Retirement so far: $15,102 + TBD by Clive the Camel.)
Betty
Shifting Perspectives
The thing about traveling in an RV is, everything shifts. What you had tucked securely and tightly away comes flying at you when you open a cabinet. Your pills, for instance. The top was on, securely. The bottles were lined up, tightly. So why did the Liptor smack you in the forehead and spill its contents into the (wet) sink, which then eased slowly and inexorably towards the drain before you could gather the pills up, drying each of them individually on paper towels, and reinsert them into the bottle?
I’m having a power struggle with my dog. Who belongs in the passenger seat, the seat that reclines comfortably and lets you enjoy the ride from the catbird perspective? The one who got there first? (Zeus) Or the one who paid half the price of the motor home?
Having spent a week alone with his person, John, where he was the equal partner in just about every endeavor, Zeus seems to feel that I am the intruder. And that I should LIE DOWN in the dog bed while he enjoys the view. Which, I should point out, cost $39.95 and has a lining that softer than my best cashmere sweater.
He’d be fine with sitting on my lap, as long as I scratch his many itchy places non-stop. Take one five-second break, and I find myself gently but firmly reminded that the bargain has been broken, and he has been scratchless longer than is acceptable.
Betty
I’m having a power struggle with my dog. Who belongs in the passenger seat, the seat that reclines comfortably and lets you enjoy the ride from the catbird perspective? The one who got there first? (Zeus) Or the one who paid half the price of the motor home?
Having spent a week alone with his person, John, where he was the equal partner in just about every endeavor, Zeus seems to feel that I am the intruder. And that I should LIE DOWN in the dog bed while he enjoys the view. Which, I should point out, cost $39.95 and has a lining that softer than my best cashmere sweater.
He’d be fine with sitting on my lap, as long as I scratch his many itchy places non-stop. Take one five-second break, and I find myself gently but firmly reminded that the bargain has been broken, and he has been scratchless longer than is acceptable.
Betty
See John Work
Mobile living isn’t for the lazy. We have air conditioning, a king size bed, two flat screen TVs, instant hot water, a convection oven and lots of room. Still, every stop requires that we unhook the tow car and remove the automatic brake from the front seat so it can be driven, pull out water and waste hoses and electrical wires, hook them up, then pull out the chairs and table from underneath, set up the portable barbecue, lay out the patio rug – a must if you don’t want dirt and pebbles in your van – open the slides, and by then you are ready for your shower. Fortunately, I don’t do any of this. I sit idly by, typing these observances while John does all the work. I figure it’s payback for 40 years of wifedom.
Betty
Betty
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Rock & I
It’s Wednesday of Week One, three days into the big adventure, and I am sitting in the parking lot of a Syracuse body shop while Al and his guys send bolts into our damaged bays to keep them from falling off and killing the guy behind us on the road.
The day we got our bus back from the beauty shop in Kingston NY, John was triumphantly pulling up the dreaded hill to our soon-to-be-ex house when he suddenly stopped, jumped out of the bus and started a diatribe that sounded exactly like Darren McGavin’s “wock-a-wock” cursing streak in “A Christmas Story.”
An error of about 8 inches too far to the right had caused him to become hung up on a small boulder (an oxymoron like “giant shrimp”). In pulling off the rock, the entire side of the bus was damaged to the tune of about $12,000, and almost all the bay doors were at the point of falling off.
We continued on to Pennsylvania and spent a nice two days with Joe and Joan McQuillan at their lovely home on Lake Wallenpaupak, then took off this morning for Syracuse. It’s 95 degrees here, and those bolts are taking forever. I just want to jump in a body of water and get cool. We do have air conditioning, but it uses up a lot of gas. At $5.25 a gallon.
The good news is, John has come around to thinking a northern jaunt would be preferable to his original plan to head south. We’re looking at Canadian maps, thank you jesus.
Our mechanic just retired to his office with a migraine, poor guy, so we may be here a wee bit longer. Or overnight.
Which could be a good thing, because there’s a mall nearby and we have to replace John’s $300 sunglasses that got sat on yesterday.
Did I mention that we went into the McQ’s hot tub last night in the pitch black of the evening, and I exited onto a non-existing step and fell flat on my derriere? The mishaps are a source of hilarity at this point.
We’re finally off as I write this, the mechanic having sent his second in command to finish us up. We’re headed to a campground, but may end up in the WalMart parking lot because we have no reservations. We’re also out of water, which is not a problem for drinking, but a big one for the rest-room situation. Anybody know of a swanky hotel in the area with a big pool and a giant martini?
Betty
The day we got our bus back from the beauty shop in Kingston NY, John was triumphantly pulling up the dreaded hill to our soon-to-be-ex house when he suddenly stopped, jumped out of the bus and started a diatribe that sounded exactly like Darren McGavin’s “wock-a-wock” cursing streak in “A Christmas Story.”
An error of about 8 inches too far to the right had caused him to become hung up on a small boulder (an oxymoron like “giant shrimp”). In pulling off the rock, the entire side of the bus was damaged to the tune of about $12,000, and almost all the bay doors were at the point of falling off.
We continued on to Pennsylvania and spent a nice two days with Joe and Joan McQuillan at their lovely home on Lake Wallenpaupak, then took off this morning for Syracuse. It’s 95 degrees here, and those bolts are taking forever. I just want to jump in a body of water and get cool. We do have air conditioning, but it uses up a lot of gas. At $5.25 a gallon.
The good news is, John has come around to thinking a northern jaunt would be preferable to his original plan to head south. We’re looking at Canadian maps, thank you jesus.
Our mechanic just retired to his office with a migraine, poor guy, so we may be here a wee bit longer. Or overnight.
Which could be a good thing, because there’s a mall nearby and we have to replace John’s $300 sunglasses that got sat on yesterday.
Did I mention that we went into the McQ’s hot tub last night in the pitch black of the evening, and I exited onto a non-existing step and fell flat on my derriere? The mishaps are a source of hilarity at this point.
We’re finally off as I write this, the mechanic having sent his second in command to finish us up. We’re headed to a campground, but may end up in the WalMart parking lot because we have no reservations. We’re also out of water, which is not a problem for drinking, but a big one for the rest-room situation. Anybody know of a swanky hotel in the area with a big pool and a giant martini?
Betty
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Thoughts to ponder on the road
The propensity to speed up significantly once a car has signaled its intention to change lanes and pull in front of you does not belong exclusively to New York drivers. But it certainly originated with us. I view it as a national movement, East to West. San Francisco is probably the last to get the message. They’re so laid back there, they’ll wait for the other guy to signal, move, proceed and get home before they’d grab top gun position in the traffic pecking order.
There’s another dimension to driving an RV. Height. At 12’3” tall, we’re discovering overpasses that were built for covered wagons and 18th century citizens, not mammoth vehicles and vitamin-enriched humans. We’re discovering trees that have failed to reach their proper height, so we’re encouraging them to grow by pruning their lower limbs. We’re discovering new perspectives, where Porsches look like ants, and Cadillac SUV’s look like wannabes. It’s nice at the top.
There’s a mathematical formula that reads something like this:
RV + small car = Sudden speed x narrowest part of road x blind spot.
Most road warriors are green-minded. They pick up their garbage, recycle their waste and leave their sites as nature intended. But when you have to wash each dish, each coffee mug, each wine glass, each knife, fork and spoon by hand, and separate everything with padding so the rattles don’t deafen you as you travel on, plastic becomes incredibly attractive.
Where we lived for 11 serene years, there were geese, ducks, foxes, turkeys, coyotes, deer, frogs, eagles and birds of every species, not to mention insects from teeny to beautiful to mean as, well, mean as hornets. I suppose the country will provide us with new beasts to enjoy, but the bar is already pretty high. Bring it on, Mother Nature.
Errata: Hooks are a beautiful thing. Every guest bedroom should have a mirror. A limo driver who knows the way is worth his weight in gas. Never let your husband put dates on the calendar; let him tell you and then you double check that the wedding is truly on Sunday and not Saturday. When a man misses the exit, it’s not you he’s mad at. It’s the whole world.
Why is it that when you pick up your $97 worth of dry cleaning all tied together with one giant twist tie, it’s always the middle hanger that drops down into the morass of plastic and refuses to be captured?
Betty
There’s another dimension to driving an RV. Height. At 12’3” tall, we’re discovering overpasses that were built for covered wagons and 18th century citizens, not mammoth vehicles and vitamin-enriched humans. We’re discovering trees that have failed to reach their proper height, so we’re encouraging them to grow by pruning their lower limbs. We’re discovering new perspectives, where Porsches look like ants, and Cadillac SUV’s look like wannabes. It’s nice at the top.
There’s a mathematical formula that reads something like this:
RV + small car = Sudden speed x narrowest part of road x blind spot.
Most road warriors are green-minded. They pick up their garbage, recycle their waste and leave their sites as nature intended. But when you have to wash each dish, each coffee mug, each wine glass, each knife, fork and spoon by hand, and separate everything with padding so the rattles don’t deafen you as you travel on, plastic becomes incredibly attractive.
Where we lived for 11 serene years, there were geese, ducks, foxes, turkeys, coyotes, deer, frogs, eagles and birds of every species, not to mention insects from teeny to beautiful to mean as, well, mean as hornets. I suppose the country will provide us with new beasts to enjoy, but the bar is already pretty high. Bring it on, Mother Nature.
Errata: Hooks are a beautiful thing. Every guest bedroom should have a mirror. A limo driver who knows the way is worth his weight in gas. Never let your husband put dates on the calendar; let him tell you and then you double check that the wedding is truly on Sunday and not Saturday. When a man misses the exit, it’s not you he’s mad at. It’s the whole world.
Why is it that when you pick up your $97 worth of dry cleaning all tied together with one giant twist tie, it’s always the middle hanger that drops down into the morass of plastic and refuses to be captured?
Betty
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