Rock Spring, CO
When I was a little girl, I remember these big brown moths that seemed to have nothing to recommend them. They weren’t pretty, they were kind of dumb, and they left a powdery smear if you tried to hold one of them. My mother told me they were Miller Moths, and I haven’t thought about them in years, although I have seen them pretty often. I ignored them, and they ignored me.
But two nights ago, we held a party in the camper for Miller Moths. I let one out the window, and his twin brother appeared about fifteen minutes later. John zapped him with a rolled up magazine, and we continued on with our evening. We had dinner, we watched some TV, we checked our e-mails and we headed for bed.
No sooner had I created my nocturnal cocoon – one pillow under me, another propped up as a book rest, my current favorite novel, my book lamp adjusted just right, and my covers snugged around me and covering my recumbent self up to my ears – than I was dive-bombed by another Miller Moth. Yikes, I screamed.
What, what! Said John.
Another f*#king moth, I said. My ladylike demeanor deserts me when I am physically threatened.
So kill it, he said.
With what? I said. I only have my book.
The moth continued to dive-bomb me. I turned off my book light and plunged the room into darkness.
Kill it, I said in my little-girl voice. I won’t be able to sleep if I know it’s in this room. I covered my head.
John put the overhead light on, and went forward to grab the fly swatter. A fly swatter, in case you were wondering, is one of the RV necessities that nobody tells you about, but which you buy pretty soon after you get your RV.
Our fly swatter is a wuss. It’s soft and pliable, effective only if you can flick it so that it whips the insect to death. After about fifteen ineffective swipes at the now-terrified moth, John grabbed a towel and started swinging. Actually, that worked.
We were both pretty wide awake after that, so we once again created the read-a-book-in-bed scenario. Muscles began to relax, eyes began to droop and we headed towards dreamland.
Then the second squad entered, heading straight for the book lights. Three of them, this time. Oh no, I yelled, get them!
John jumped up, grabbed his towel and beat those suckers into submission. Are you counting? That was five moths so far.
What did I do? I got up and Googled Miller Moths of course. We had no bug spray, but I wouldn’t have used it anyway. It smells horrible. According to Google, Miller Moths are the Spring scourge of Colorado. The larvae burrow into the ground in Kansas and Nebraska and hatch in the Spring, at which point they head for the Rockies. They navigate by the moon and stars, which is why they are attracted to the light. They get into anywhere there is light, including towns, including homes, including, obviously, motor homes. Then they desperately try to get to the Rockies, where there are succulent flowers for them to dine upon.
Google's advice on how to get rid of them once they are in your house was this: You suspend an electric light bulb above a bucket of water. They come to the light, drop into the bucket and drown. Right. This sounds like one of those it-might-work solutions. And anyway, we don’t have a light bulb on a cord. We do have a bucket, but we weren’t inclined to set up this death trap, especially at eleven at night.
The total number of moths we got that night was an amazing fourteen. It was like they emailed each other and decided our bus was the place to meet. You should have seen John with his terrible towel and his wussy fly swatter. Me, I was under the covers, playing the delicate maiden card.
Finally we gave up and turned off all the lights.
Then came the smell. What is that horrible smell? I asked on returning from my Google search. It was definitely coming in the window right over my pillow. Right into my delicate little Irish nose. It was not something anyone could sleep through. I tried, believe me.
The last time I smelled anything this bad was in the monkey house at the Bronx Zoo. But I seriously doubt if any monkeys were hanging around our camper. Coyote? Wolf? Bear?
No, I learned the next morning, it was a badger. And in case you are wondering, badger smell is almost as bad as skunk smell. And it was strong, then it was not so strong, then it was strong, then it was gone, then it came back again, then it stayed around ….
Do something, I said to John. I won't be able to sleep.
I already did, he replied. I killed fourteen Miller Moths. This is your baby.
So I did what any smart woman would do. I got out my Pueblo Bonito Spa home spray, which I purchased in Mexico. I doused us both with its lovely scent. I closed the window. And I went to sleep.
Of course I did. If I wasn’t going to confront a moth, there was no way I was going to confront a badger.
Betty
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Lulled by the Laundry
Salina - At the Laundromat
The size of our washing machine – miniscule – and the capacity of our water tank – challenged – led me to choose to drive to the laundromat, always an interesting experience.
I had a blog to write, so I took my computer along, and planned to stay the whole boring time instead of returning to the Bus-On-Blocks. I’ve been to laundromats before, but I never stick around. I don’t watch grass grow, wait for pots to boil or sit around until the ice melts on that lake in Goshen – which, by the way, is an actual, annual event in those parts of Connecticut.
I loaded my four machines, dropped in my obscene number of quarters, soaped up, pushed the button and got to work on my blogging. Almost half an hour later, I put my head up and realized I had done the impossible. I had finished a chapter on getting marooned in Kansas, and I had also gotten my white pants clean of the oil that was a by-product of the breakdown that got us here in the first place. Talk about your full circle.
Then I noticed that the two other people in the place had not moved in half an hour. Both of them, a “man of the fields” by his appearance, and a “mom of sixteen” by hers, were staring fixedly at their respective washing machines and had been doing so the whole time I had been there.
I folded my fluffy towels, neatly arranged my shirts in a flat pile for their future hangers, tucked my undies into my purse, and started on the job of taking my pristine piles out to the car. Of course, I didn’t go directly to the car. I took a left and detoured around the aisle to see what was so darned compelling about the machines on that row.
I stood for a few minutes staring at the two busy washing machines. Soap, suds, duds. Yep. No cats, dogs or other errant items of non-wash that might have landed in the basket by mistake. No strange behavior of soap, like color changes or oversize bubbles. No odd behaviors of laundry, like unacceptable shrinkage or dangerous shredding. There were no laundry events of note, of any kind. And yet they sat and stared.
Uh. Okay. I finished stacking the back seat of the car and decided to re-dry the jeans, always the rebels of the load who demand extra attention. I returned to my computer for another half hour.
I finished another blog, turned to the dryer, pulled out those jeans, snapped them into shape and folded them neatly along the press lines. I was done.
Field man and mom were still there. Neither had moved. I took the long way around again, and discreetly held a mirror under each nose. The mirror fogged, so I knew they were alive. But maybe they were under a spell put on them by the evil light-bulb changer who had been up on the ladder when I arrived but who’d beaten a quick retreat once I got going with my laundry. Whatever.
More likely they were just using the time to relax and chill, lulled into an hypnotic state by the slosh slosh of the water and the thump thump of the clothing. Maybe this laundry time was the only time they got to themselves. Just maybe, it was keeping them sane and helping them to deal. Maybe it was a New Age technique. Why not. Kansas isn’t Oklahoma, after all.
All I know is, they looked really peaceful just sitting there and watching their stuff go round and round. Maybe next time I won’t bring my computer. Maybe I’ll just join them in their pleasant fog. But first I’m going to have to get some more interesting laundry. I need the intellectual stimulation.
Betty
The size of our washing machine – miniscule – and the capacity of our water tank – challenged – led me to choose to drive to the laundromat, always an interesting experience.
I had a blog to write, so I took my computer along, and planned to stay the whole boring time instead of returning to the Bus-On-Blocks. I’ve been to laundromats before, but I never stick around. I don’t watch grass grow, wait for pots to boil or sit around until the ice melts on that lake in Goshen – which, by the way, is an actual, annual event in those parts of Connecticut.
I loaded my four machines, dropped in my obscene number of quarters, soaped up, pushed the button and got to work on my blogging. Almost half an hour later, I put my head up and realized I had done the impossible. I had finished a chapter on getting marooned in Kansas, and I had also gotten my white pants clean of the oil that was a by-product of the breakdown that got us here in the first place. Talk about your full circle.
Then I noticed that the two other people in the place had not moved in half an hour. Both of them, a “man of the fields” by his appearance, and a “mom of sixteen” by hers, were staring fixedly at their respective washing machines and had been doing so the whole time I had been there.
I folded my fluffy towels, neatly arranged my shirts in a flat pile for their future hangers, tucked my undies into my purse, and started on the job of taking my pristine piles out to the car. Of course, I didn’t go directly to the car. I took a left and detoured around the aisle to see what was so darned compelling about the machines on that row.
I stood for a few minutes staring at the two busy washing machines. Soap, suds, duds. Yep. No cats, dogs or other errant items of non-wash that might have landed in the basket by mistake. No strange behavior of soap, like color changes or oversize bubbles. No odd behaviors of laundry, like unacceptable shrinkage or dangerous shredding. There were no laundry events of note, of any kind. And yet they sat and stared.
Uh. Okay. I finished stacking the back seat of the car and decided to re-dry the jeans, always the rebels of the load who demand extra attention. I returned to my computer for another half hour.
I finished another blog, turned to the dryer, pulled out those jeans, snapped them into shape and folded them neatly along the press lines. I was done.
Field man and mom were still there. Neither had moved. I took the long way around again, and discreetly held a mirror under each nose. The mirror fogged, so I knew they were alive. But maybe they were under a spell put on them by the evil light-bulb changer who had been up on the ladder when I arrived but who’d beaten a quick retreat once I got going with my laundry. Whatever.
More likely they were just using the time to relax and chill, lulled into an hypnotic state by the slosh slosh of the water and the thump thump of the clothing. Maybe this laundry time was the only time they got to themselves. Just maybe, it was keeping them sane and helping them to deal. Maybe it was a New Age technique. Why not. Kansas isn’t Oklahoma, after all.
All I know is, they looked really peaceful just sitting there and watching their stuff go round and round. Maybe next time I won’t bring my computer. Maybe I’ll just join them in their pleasant fog. But first I’m going to have to get some more interesting laundry. I need the intellectual stimulation.
Betty
The Wetness of Water
Almost six days into this enforced vacation in Salina Kansas, I am reflecting on the relative importance of those things necessary to survival in the wild. And by wild I mean someplace without a decent restaurant.
I would say that the basic three are food, water, and electricity. Food is a no-brainer. When the zoo’s deviled eggs make you sick, and the Mickey D food begins to taste like the cardboard it is, you need some decent food in your refrigerator. Lettuce and tomatoes, for starters. This simple salad can taste like manna from on high if you’re sufficiently deprived. Yogurt. This acidophilus-containing tummy filler will combat those nasty zoo eggs and get you regular in a pinch, if you get my drift.
Electricity is another no-brainer. How else can you watch the Idol finals if you don’t have electricity?
Water, of course, sustains all life, washes your dishes if you’ve been dumb enough to run out of the paper variety, cleanses your body and your clothes, and is an important part of that which will not be mentioned in the water closet. Which is why, of course, they call it a water closet.
But get stuck in a tow yard and even if your water needs are met courtesy of the hose they so generously have hooked up to their faucet, you end up with other life-altering decisions to make.
I have already been told not to abuse the electric by using the iron, hair dryer, microwave, and curling iron. Sheesh. All the fun stuff.
And now it appears I may not be able to do something else unless we are fixed and mobile very soon.
Here’s the deal with the water. It comes in, but it doesn’t go out. You have your holding tanks – one for fresh water, one for grey water – that’s the effluence of your showers, washing machine, kitchen and bathroom sinks – and another for “black” water. Which of course is that which shall not be mentioned.
There are gauges that tell you just how full or empty each holding tank is. Our grey water tank was 95% full, so John crept out at midnight last night and pulled the plug on our soapy, skin-cell polluted grey water and let it flow down the driveway of the repair station. By morning all was dry, and nobody was the wiser.
But you can’t empty a black-water tank just anywhere. So I’m sitting here waiting for John to tell me my bathroom privileges have been suspended. In which case, you may reach me at the local Best Western. It won’t have all the comforts of home, but I can wash my hair, and if I’m lucky, the TV will work and I can find out if it’s Kris or Adam on Idol. As if. Adam will walk away with it. He’s the bomb.
Betty
I would say that the basic three are food, water, and electricity. Food is a no-brainer. When the zoo’s deviled eggs make you sick, and the Mickey D food begins to taste like the cardboard it is, you need some decent food in your refrigerator. Lettuce and tomatoes, for starters. This simple salad can taste like manna from on high if you’re sufficiently deprived. Yogurt. This acidophilus-containing tummy filler will combat those nasty zoo eggs and get you regular in a pinch, if you get my drift.
Electricity is another no-brainer. How else can you watch the Idol finals if you don’t have electricity?
Water, of course, sustains all life, washes your dishes if you’ve been dumb enough to run out of the paper variety, cleanses your body and your clothes, and is an important part of that which will not be mentioned in the water closet. Which is why, of course, they call it a water closet.
But get stuck in a tow yard and even if your water needs are met courtesy of the hose they so generously have hooked up to their faucet, you end up with other life-altering decisions to make.
I have already been told not to abuse the electric by using the iron, hair dryer, microwave, and curling iron. Sheesh. All the fun stuff.
And now it appears I may not be able to do something else unless we are fixed and mobile very soon.
Here’s the deal with the water. It comes in, but it doesn’t go out. You have your holding tanks – one for fresh water, one for grey water – that’s the effluence of your showers, washing machine, kitchen and bathroom sinks – and another for “black” water. Which of course is that which shall not be mentioned.
There are gauges that tell you just how full or empty each holding tank is. Our grey water tank was 95% full, so John crept out at midnight last night and pulled the plug on our soapy, skin-cell polluted grey water and let it flow down the driveway of the repair station. By morning all was dry, and nobody was the wiser.
But you can’t empty a black-water tank just anywhere. So I’m sitting here waiting for John to tell me my bathroom privileges have been suspended. In which case, you may reach me at the local Best Western. It won’t have all the comforts of home, but I can wash my hair, and if I’m lucky, the TV will work and I can find out if it’s Kris or Adam on Idol. As if. Adam will walk away with it. He’s the bomb.
Betty
So Marooned We’re Almost Purple
Salina Kansas
It’s five days after the turbo event, and we are still parked on blocks in front of the Auto House Towing & Car Repair garage. The world is going on around us, but we are stalled here, at the mercy of the gods.
First there was the weekend, during which only emergencies were attended to. We were triaged, but didn’t make it to emergency status. After all, we were still breathing and we had water and electricity. No matter that the high-end restaurant in Salina (Sal-eye-nah) was a tossup between McD’s and a Sonic. No matter that there was no movie theater, library, museum. There was a zoo and we could damn well go see some wildlife yah.
To be fair, we did discover a movie theater out of town at the obligatory mall, so life wasn’t as tough as I’m making it out to be. But we are down to our last can of clams, and unless I can Google a Walmart in the immediate area, dinner tonight may well be clam dip on rye bread.
We thought we’d get our part on Monday, but there were no turbos in the area, so it had to be Fedexed for Tuesday delivery. Then the part arrived, but the mechanic didn’t. Turns out that while we were bemoaning the fate of our home on wheels, this poor guy took a sharp stick in the eye, literally, and being a tough, homespun Kansas type, ignored it until it turned into a threat to his sight. So he had to see the doctor, who wasn’t available until Wednesday (talk about emergency service!) and might have to have an operation to save the eye, after which god knows how long, he could fix our bus.
Is there a second mechanic in this town? Apparently not. So we held a private prayer service inside the bus, making even Zeus get own on his knees with us, and petitioned God for his speedy recovery.
It must have worked, because he’s supposed to be back on the job tomorrow. Meanwhile the weather is amazing. Even when it gets up past 80, it’s fabulous because the wind blows constantly, and although my hair has assumed some very interesting positions as a result, it is wonderful to be outside and enjoying things like… the zoo. Yes we did go, and while we both got really sick from the deviled eggs we had for lunch (never, ever buy egg anything when you are at the zoo) we had a good time. We took ourselves to Abilene and visited the Eisenhower Museum and family home, which was very well done and incredibly interesting, especially Mamie’s jewelry – look, you research what you like and I’ll research what I like.
Later, we’ll go back to Abilene for dinner. There’s a restaurant there that is said to have the best fried chicken in Kansas. So what if it’s another 50-mile round trip. It’s either that or clam dip on rye. What would you do?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Marooned in Kansas
Ellesworth Kansas
It’s 3 in the afternoon on Friday, and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with a burned out turbo.
I had almost completed the second leg of our 4 hour trek from Oklahoma to Kansas when, wonder of wonders, there appeared before me a slight rise in the road, what in Kansas would be termed a hill.
I put the bus into a lower gear and proceeded forward, watching with concern as the speedometer went from 65 to 45 and still headed downward. A pedal to the metal didn’t make an ounce of difference. We crested the hill; I breathed a sigh of relief and put the van back into drive gear. Then I looked in the mirror.
The entire road was filled with white smoke, our tow car was invisible, and it seemed to be coming from the bus. Oh God, I cried, we’re on fire! Either that, or we just elected a new pope. It sure looked like we were on fire. I pulled over and John grabbed the fire extinguisher and went to investigate.
The good news was, we weren’t on fire. The bad news was, we were spewing oil and smoke from our exhaust, and the car, newly washed yesterday, was covered with oil. I mean it was black!
A kind motorist pulled over and asked if we were okay and said his wife had called 911. The fire trucks arrived, several other cars stopped, and the police were not far behind them. Everybody stood around looking at the tail pipe. We were encouraged to drive two miles further to an exit and safer parking at a local gas station.
We caravaned: bus, car, two fire trucks and one police car. But for the smoke, you could have figured it for a giant drug bust with extra help in case there were also contraband fireworks in the evil bus.
I have never seen so much smoke. The road was blanketed on both sides for the whole two miles. The Jeep, bad enough at first, was now one big oil slick. We pulled in to a parking lot next to the gas station to wait for help. Gas stations, let me inform you, do not work on RV’s. You need an RV mechanic. Fortunately, the cop had a friend who showed up and diagnosed our turbo as deceased, so at least we knew what it was.
Now we just had to wait for the Good Sam Club rescue guy to show up. John spent a good 45 minutes with them on the phone, telling first this one, then someone else, all our information – our VIN number, date of purchase, place of purchase, etc., plus his weight, social security number and years of military service.
With nothing else to do, we filled a bucket with dish detergent (a great suggestion from our friend Geno) and set to cleaning the Jeep. Half an hour later, we’d gotten most of the oil off the car… and onto my new beige pants and shirt. John’s new shorts were ruined as well.
I changed into clean clothes, got as much of the oily dirt off my hands and face as I could, then decided, apropos of nothing, to take a bike ride. It is a beautiful day and I could use the exercise. I got on my bike, drove into a curb and fell into the dust and gravel. I gave up.
My clean clothes are dirty, my dirty old clothes are soaking, my hands are scraped and I’ve decided never to drive a Jeep, RV or bike again. I’m going to get an elephant and one of those little houses (howdahs?) that sits on its back and I will employ slaves to lift me in and out of it.
I wonder if they even have elephants in Kansas. And do they come with VIN numbers? John’s giving the VIN to our would-be rescuers for the seventh time in an hour. I’d better go give him some moral support, like, for instance, a cold beer.
Betty
It’s 3 in the afternoon on Friday, and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with a burned out turbo.
I had almost completed the second leg of our 4 hour trek from Oklahoma to Kansas when, wonder of wonders, there appeared before me a slight rise in the road, what in Kansas would be termed a hill.
I put the bus into a lower gear and proceeded forward, watching with concern as the speedometer went from 65 to 45 and still headed downward. A pedal to the metal didn’t make an ounce of difference. We crested the hill; I breathed a sigh of relief and put the van back into drive gear. Then I looked in the mirror.
The entire road was filled with white smoke, our tow car was invisible, and it seemed to be coming from the bus. Oh God, I cried, we’re on fire! Either that, or we just elected a new pope. It sure looked like we were on fire. I pulled over and John grabbed the fire extinguisher and went to investigate.
The good news was, we weren’t on fire. The bad news was, we were spewing oil and smoke from our exhaust, and the car, newly washed yesterday, was covered with oil. I mean it was black!
A kind motorist pulled over and asked if we were okay and said his wife had called 911. The fire trucks arrived, several other cars stopped, and the police were not far behind them. Everybody stood around looking at the tail pipe. We were encouraged to drive two miles further to an exit and safer parking at a local gas station.
We caravaned: bus, car, two fire trucks and one police car. But for the smoke, you could have figured it for a giant drug bust with extra help in case there were also contraband fireworks in the evil bus.
I have never seen so much smoke. The road was blanketed on both sides for the whole two miles. The Jeep, bad enough at first, was now one big oil slick. We pulled in to a parking lot next to the gas station to wait for help. Gas stations, let me inform you, do not work on RV’s. You need an RV mechanic. Fortunately, the cop had a friend who showed up and diagnosed our turbo as deceased, so at least we knew what it was.
Now we just had to wait for the Good Sam Club rescue guy to show up. John spent a good 45 minutes with them on the phone, telling first this one, then someone else, all our information – our VIN number, date of purchase, place of purchase, etc., plus his weight, social security number and years of military service.
With nothing else to do, we filled a bucket with dish detergent (a great suggestion from our friend Geno) and set to cleaning the Jeep. Half an hour later, we’d gotten most of the oil off the car… and onto my new beige pants and shirt. John’s new shorts were ruined as well.
I changed into clean clothes, got as much of the oily dirt off my hands and face as I could, then decided, apropos of nothing, to take a bike ride. It is a beautiful day and I could use the exercise. I got on my bike, drove into a curb and fell into the dust and gravel. I gave up.
My clean clothes are dirty, my dirty old clothes are soaking, my hands are scraped and I’ve decided never to drive a Jeep, RV or bike again. I’m going to get an elephant and one of those little houses (howdahs?) that sits on its back and I will employ slaves to lift me in and out of it.
I wonder if they even have elephants in Kansas. And do they come with VIN numbers? John’s giving the VIN to our would-be rescuers for the seventh time in an hour. I’d better go give him some moral support, like, for instance, a cold beer.
Betty
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Oklahoma. Yow!
Cedar Valley RV Park
Guthrie Oklahoma
If Texas is cowboy country, Oklahoma is even cowboyer. We weren’t three miles across the border when I saw a horse farm. Then another. And another. This is truly horse country. And while I didn’t see one cowboy hat in Houston, I have seen three since I got here. Including the one on the old geezer sitting behind the desk at this campground. I’m only calling him that because he stuck us next to the dumpster. Ornery old cuss.
The corn isn’t as high as an elephant’s eye, yet, but it’s here and growing. And I’m sure that tomorrow morning there will be a bright golden haze on the meadow.
This is very pretty country. Rolling hills, lots of green, little wildflowers by the side of the road, fewer road signs than I’ve been seeing, thank goodness. And the temperature is in the 90’s but the wind is so strong that it feels more like a luxury spa than a sauna.
Just outside of Oklahoma City, I passed my very first ever Horse Shoeing School. The building was red, the campus was big, and the horses were numerous, and presumably in need of shoeing. I wonder if it’s a four-year accredited institution. Do you get a degree in shoe? What other courses might they offer? Something to consider.
We’re on our way to Yellowstone in Wyoming, so these are just one-night stopovers. Nevertheless, there’s something new and different everywhere we go. And if there isn’t, you can just make your own fun if you feel like it.
For instance, I just nailed the dumpster shut. Should make for an interesting evening, don’t you think?
Betty
Guthrie Oklahoma
If Texas is cowboy country, Oklahoma is even cowboyer. We weren’t three miles across the border when I saw a horse farm. Then another. And another. This is truly horse country. And while I didn’t see one cowboy hat in Houston, I have seen three since I got here. Including the one on the old geezer sitting behind the desk at this campground. I’m only calling him that because he stuck us next to the dumpster. Ornery old cuss.
The corn isn’t as high as an elephant’s eye, yet, but it’s here and growing. And I’m sure that tomorrow morning there will be a bright golden haze on the meadow.
This is very pretty country. Rolling hills, lots of green, little wildflowers by the side of the road, fewer road signs than I’ve been seeing, thank goodness. And the temperature is in the 90’s but the wind is so strong that it feels more like a luxury spa than a sauna.
Just outside of Oklahoma City, I passed my very first ever Horse Shoeing School. The building was red, the campus was big, and the horses were numerous, and presumably in need of shoeing. I wonder if it’s a four-year accredited institution. Do you get a degree in shoe? What other courses might they offer? Something to consider.
We’re on our way to Yellowstone in Wyoming, so these are just one-night stopovers. Nevertheless, there’s something new and different everywhere we go. And if there isn’t, you can just make your own fun if you feel like it.
For instance, I just nailed the dumpster shut. Should make for an interesting evening, don’t you think?
Betty
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