Florida - Four Months Ago
Being an acclaimed interior decorator in my head, it didn’t surprise me at all when I decided that our 41’ mobile mansion was not up to my personal standards. The rug got dirty all too easily. There was a scratch on the wood where the lounge chair kept scraping it, the direct result of my husband’s attempts to push it beyond its recliner status and turn it into his personal bed. The flooring in the kitchen area was grouted fake brick which retained elements of dinners past and refused to give them up no matter how hard I mopped. Which I have to admit, could be a good thing if we were ever caught in the forest without food. We could simply lick the floor.
And so on.
I put a mental number to my to-do list and set off to find the perfect RV renovator. In Florida, in the middle of discussions with one RV dealer who also did upgrades, John, a creature of no change at all, suggested that maybe instead of pouring twenty to thirty thousand dollars into our old bus, it might make sense to put that money into a newer vehicle with more of the amenities I now absolutely had to have.
Was this my creature of the rock? The man who having decided he was comfortable, never wanted to move so much as a book on the table for fear of disrupting his calm?
At the sound of this, I turned my head so sharply my teeth almost didn’t follow. He was serious. He was looking over my shoulder. I was pretty sure he hadn’t developed a lazy eye overnight, so I knew he had spotted something. There on a mound of earth in the winner’s corner of the lot, poised like the Heismann trophy on Joe Namath’s mantel, was a brand new Beaver Coach, even longer than ours and bearing the wondrous message “Special.”
It was shiny, it was new, it was clean inside! It was $700,000. I decided to look.
The first thing that hit me was the entrance into the coach. These were not my bumpy vinyl rubberized safety steps. These were granite. Shiny, black and as slippery as a grape. They were gorgeous. Now that was an entry, and damn the safety issues. But wait! The entire floor was black granite. Oh how gorgeous. Oh how beautiful. Oh, my practical mind said, how easy to keep clean. Just a little Swiffer and I’d be done for the day. I was in love.
I stepped up into the living area. Everything glistened. No, everything sparkled. I was standing in the middle of a diamond ring, a limpid lake, the sun, even. Every inch of the inside was gelled to perfection. The wood had maybe fifteen hundred coats of urethane. I could see myself in the cherry sheen of every surface. And what wasn’t wood was brilliant black trim. And what wasn’t wood or black was mirror, oh help me Elizabeth I had died and gone to heaven.
There were two bathrooms, two. And a full-size shower with a sliding door. And a king sized bed. And a washer and dryer. And a dishwasher. And everything sparkled. Oh Lordy, my wallet was throbbing to be opened, its cash intent on near-sexual release.
And oh, it was indeed sexual, this castle-in-a-coach.
The ceiling was a cacophony of tiny little lights, swirling wood trim, and mirrors. No wonder everything sparkled. The reflections just kept bouncing from one shiny surface to another and back again. My eyes were bewitched, my senses heightened, my reason impaired.
And then I realized. I was in a whorehouse. All it lacked were the red velvet drapes and the fancy women. No wonder I was so mesmerized, so dry in the mouth, so … I don’t know … turned on.
That was the point. This was a rolling cat house. And like every customer who has ever patronized one of those pleasure palaces, I was going to pay through the nose to stay this high and this excited.
Oh dear.
Suddenly my softy, cushy rug – did I say dirty? How silly of me. It was just colorful. – seemed so inviting. My little shower, so cozy. My sink with its dirty dishes so needful of my tender ministrations. My fake brick floor with its greedy grout so like a grubby, adorable child. My bus, home.
I had almost traded home for a wanton woman. Whew. That was a close one.
My wallet, no longer throbbing, sighed in relief. So did my conscience.
Temptation notwithstanding, I am at heart a good woman. And don’t you forget it.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Slow Down!
Lake Chautauqua
Western New York State
One of the consistent rules of campgrounds is a speed limit. This makes sense, because of the children who tend to roam free in these places. There are no stay-out-of-the-road-Tommy imprecations to be heard, because the road is where it’s at. This is not the big city, nor is it even the suburbs. This is the country, where kids are supposed to let go and go.
The other big reason, it seems to me, is the noise and dust that fast driving causes. Dirt roads are the standard in campgrounds, and the only place you see cement is under your rig. If you’re lucky. These slabs are only in the better places, and they mean that your vehicle tends to be more or less level, and less likely to sink into the mud on a rainy day.
But speed limits bring out the worst in people. Or I should say, the worst people. I call them the road captains. By this, I do not mean the camper-workers, generally retired people who work at the campground in return for free rent, and who generally drive around in golf carts being generally pleasant, generally helpful and generally stern about the driving limit.
No, I’m talking about those fellow campers who make it their life’s work to call out to you as you drive along, “Slow Down!”
This, I’ve discovered is a near impossible thing to do if you are following the signs posted along the way. They range from a nerve-wracking 10 miles an hour to a mind-blowing 2.5 miles an hour. Have you ever tried to go 2.5 miles an hour? It is near to impossible. Besides, the effort of keeping at this speed means you are constantly looking at your speedometer and not at the road, so you are inevitably going to plow down little Shaniekwa, albeit slowly.
Most recently we stopped a campground of season residents in Western New York on Lake Chautauqua. It was a nice place, with a lovely, if distant, view of the lake, cement parking slabs, few children since school isn’t yet out, and a fair smattering of porch police. The speed limit was 5 miles an hour and we were at the far end of the big place, which meant that at that speed I had a three-hour drive to the gate.
I was diligent about keeping to the limit. Even so, the minute my car decided it had better move along or it would die of inactivity, somebody would call out angrily, “Slow Down!”
No matter that my speed was now at 6 mph, the difference from 5 mph all but imperceptible to me. They had me dead to rights, and were letting the world know that I was a lawbreaker. How embarrassing. How belittling. How did they know?
I started to think of smart replies: What are you, a cop? Give me a ticket! I was not speeding! It’s Tuesday, fast Tuesday! And my best: Get a life! But nothing seemed either appropriate for the moment or sufficiently devastating. Besides, at this speed, they’d be able to go to their computers and Google “smart replies,” return and shout something equally devastating back at me before I was out of earshot. It was a no-win situation.
So I bore the humiliation with the quiet dignity for which I am known.
Then yesterday, the day before we were to leave, I had brainstorm. I brought my camera. Brilliant. I took a picture of the speedometer as I was driving along. Two seconds later, somebody called out, “Slow down, you idiot!” Even better. This was not just a finger-point. It was an insult, and I was ready.
I stopped the car, jumped out and rushed to the porch. Its occupants, an elderly couple in rockers, a jar of sun tea perking nearby, looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. I’m sure no one had ever stopped and confronted them.
“Look!” I said with authority, “ Look!” I held up my camera. There on the screen was my picture, showing my recorded speed. Five miles an hour on the button. Not a whit more, not a tick less.
But I was not to have my satisfaction. “I need my readers,” said the woman. “I’ll help you look,” said her husband. They disappeared inside.
I stood there, righteous indignation making my heart race, proof that I was innocent in my hand. I had them. I knew it, and they would have to apologize and, hopefully, shut up, at least for the rest of the day.
Five minutes later, I got back in my car. They never came back out.
Betty
Lake Chautauqua
Western New York State
One of the consistent rules of campgrounds is a speed limit. This makes sense, because of the children who tend to roam free in these places. There are no stay-out-of-the-road-Tommy imprecations to be heard, because the road is where it’s at. This is not the big city, nor is it even the suburbs. This is the country, where kids are supposed to let go and go.
The other big reason, it seems to me, is the noise and dust that fast driving causes. Dirt roads are the standard in campgrounds, and the only place you see cement is under your rig. If you’re lucky. These slabs are only in the better places, and they mean that your vehicle tends to be more or less level, and less likely to sink into the mud on a rainy day.
But speed limits bring out the worst in people. Or I should say, the worst people. I call them the road captains. By this, I do not mean the camper-workers, generally retired people who work at the campground in return for free rent, and who generally drive around in golf carts being generally pleasant, generally helpful and generally stern about the driving limit.
No, I’m talking about those fellow campers who make it their life’s work to call out to you as you drive along, “Slow Down!”
This, I’ve discovered is a near impossible thing to do if you are following the signs posted along the way. They range from a nerve-wracking 10 miles an hour to a mind-blowing 2.5 miles an hour. Have you ever tried to go 2.5 miles an hour? It is near to impossible. Besides, the effort of keeping at this speed means you are constantly looking at your speedometer and not at the road, so you are inevitably going to plow down little Shaniekwa, albeit slowly.
Most recently we stopped a campground of season residents in Western New York on Lake Chautauqua. It was a nice place, with a lovely, if distant, view of the lake, cement parking slabs, few children since school isn’t yet out, and a fair smattering of porch police. The speed limit was 5 miles an hour and we were at the far end of the big place, which meant that at that speed I had a three-hour drive to the gate.
I was diligent about keeping to the limit. Even so, the minute my car decided it had better move along or it would die of inactivity, somebody would call out angrily, “Slow Down!”
No matter that my speed was now at 6 mph, the difference from 5 mph all but imperceptible to me. They had me dead to rights, and were letting the world know that I was a lawbreaker. How embarrassing. How belittling. How did they know?
I started to think of smart replies: What are you, a cop? Give me a ticket! I was not speeding! It’s Tuesday, fast Tuesday! And my best: Get a life! But nothing seemed either appropriate for the moment or sufficiently devastating. Besides, at this speed, they’d be able to go to their computers and Google “smart replies,” return and shout something equally devastating back at me before I was out of earshot. It was a no-win situation.
So I bore the humiliation with the quiet dignity for which I am known.
Then yesterday, the day before we were to leave, I had brainstorm. I brought my camera. Brilliant. I took a picture of the speedometer as I was driving along. Two seconds later, somebody called out, “Slow down, you idiot!” Even better. This was not just a finger-point. It was an insult, and I was ready.
I stopped the car, jumped out and rushed to the porch. Its occupants, an elderly couple in rockers, a jar of sun tea perking nearby, looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. I’m sure no one had ever stopped and confronted them.
“Look!” I said with authority, “ Look!” I held up my camera. There on the screen was my picture, showing my recorded speed. Five miles an hour on the button. Not a whit more, not a tick less.
But I was not to have my satisfaction. “I need my readers,” said the woman. “I’ll help you look,” said her husband. They disappeared inside.
I stood there, righteous indignation making my heart race, proof that I was innocent in my hand. I had them. I knew it, and they would have to apologize and, hopefully, shut up, at least for the rest of the day.
Five minutes later, I got back in my car. They never came back out.
Betty
Lake Chautauqua
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Just Outside of Davenport
I'm not one to generalize. But.
In Iowa
All the views are endless.
All the fields are green.
All the skies are open.
All the towns are two blocks long.
All the names are familiar: Altoona, Brooklyn, Oakdale, West Branch, Moscow.
All the folk are friendly.
All the work is farming.
And all the cars are dusty.
Feels very American in Iowa, if you know what I mean.
Betty
More Iowa Pictures:
Famous Tourist Site that Built an Entire Town. Wall Drug made their success by offering free ice water to travelers on the highway. The complex comprises 25 different stores, including the original drug store and still offers free water. And a lot else, including a chapel for travelers, antiques, t-shirts, homemade fudge, two restaurants and lots of restrooms. We were there on a Monday and it was bustling.
In Iowa
All the views are endless.
All the fields are green.
All the skies are open.
All the towns are two blocks long.
All the names are familiar: Altoona, Brooklyn, Oakdale, West Branch, Moscow.
All the folk are friendly.
All the work is farming.
And all the cars are dusty.
Feels very American in Iowa, if you know what I mean.
Betty
More Iowa Pictures:
Famous Tourist Site that Built an Entire Town. Wall Drug made their success by offering free ice water to travelers on the highway. The complex comprises 25 different stores, including the original drug store and still offers free water. And a lot else, including a chapel for travelers, antiques, t-shirts, homemade fudge, two restaurants and lots of restrooms. We were there on a Monday and it was bustling.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
An e-mail to Frank
I had just hung up th phone with you when a large bump presented itself. We took it hard, the cabinet flew open, and all the dishes flew out.
Which is fine, since we now have all plastic.
Except that I also had two glass mugs filled with loose change which also came out.
They hit the counter, slammed into my microwave turntable which I had placed in the sink to stop it rattling and broke it into seven pieces.
All the coins went all over.
Of course I'll pick them up.
There's probably just enough there to pay for the turntable.
Love
Betty
Which is fine, since we now have all plastic.
Except that I also had two glass mugs filled with loose change which also came out.
They hit the counter, slammed into my microwave turntable which I had placed in the sink to stop it rattling and broke it into seven pieces.
All the coins went all over.
Of course I'll pick them up.
There's probably just enough there to pay for the turntable.
Love
Betty
Monday, June 1, 2009
Mt. Rushmore
Yesterday, May 30th, we finally got to one of our premier destinations. Mt. Rushmore in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The weather was perfect – 72 degrees doesn’t get any perfecter. The sky was in full blue and the clouds were white and fluffy.
Rushmore was the brainchild of historian Doane Robinson who proposed the sculptor Gutzon Borglum. The memorial was championed to Congress by President Coolidge in 1923. Its work took from 1927 to 1941, when Borglum died and his son oversaw the wind-down of the project. Borglum did no fewer than seventeen designs, and even into the blasting had to make major adjustments when it was discovered that the rock to Washington’s right, originally intended for Jefferson, was unsuitable for carving.
The original model shows a much more complete depiction, but Congress refused to allocate any more funds to finish the project. I think it looks pretty wonderful as it is, but I found a picture to show you its original intent. This is one of his final models in his studio, but you can see it’s not even the last one he did. Congress spent all of $989 thousand dollars, a puny sum these days for something so magnificent.
Washington depicts the founding of the nation, Jefferson its dedication to the rights of all, Lincoln the solidarity of the union, and Roosevelt its leadership in the world. Susan B. Anthony was supposed to have been added, but Congress decided in its wisdom that only the heads that were started should be finished. I guess they figured she had laundry and cooking to do.
Another group similarly offended were the ones who were here in the first place, the Native Americans. Oh yeah, them. Currently in progress is the Crazy Horse monument, about 20 miles away in another part of Rushmore Park. Just the head is in place, but I hope Congress doesn’t wimp out and cut out the horse under him. It should be awesome when it’s completed.
Rushmore was the brainchild of historian Doane Robinson who proposed the sculptor Gutzon Borglum. The memorial was championed to Congress by President Coolidge in 1923. Its work took from 1927 to 1941, when Borglum died and his son oversaw the wind-down of the project. Borglum did no fewer than seventeen designs, and even into the blasting had to make major adjustments when it was discovered that the rock to Washington’s right, originally intended for Jefferson, was unsuitable for carving.
The original model shows a much more complete depiction, but Congress refused to allocate any more funds to finish the project. I think it looks pretty wonderful as it is, but I found a picture to show you its original intent. This is one of his final models in his studio, but you can see it’s not even the last one he did. Congress spent all of $989 thousand dollars, a puny sum these days for something so magnificent.
Washington depicts the founding of the nation, Jefferson its dedication to the rights of all, Lincoln the solidarity of the union, and Roosevelt its leadership in the world. Susan B. Anthony was supposed to have been added, but Congress decided in its wisdom that only the heads that were started should be finished. I guess they figured she had laundry and cooking to do.
Another group similarly offended were the ones who were here in the first place, the Native Americans. Oh yeah, them. Currently in progress is the Crazy Horse monument, about 20 miles away in another part of Rushmore Park. Just the head is in place, but I hope Congress doesn’t wimp out and cut out the horse under him. It should be awesome when it’s completed.
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