On the Road

One day, out of the blue, fiancé had a simple idea.

(Most disasters in my life begin with a simple idea, but they're usually my own.)

She wanted a place to sleep when we go visit my mom.  Now, mom's house is just fine, but, when we go to visit, we have a tornado of a little boy and a mammoth of a puppy.  Our 10 month old puppy now weighs almost 180 lbs.

As such, my fiancé doesn't sleep well because she's worried that our invading force will wake the rest of the house.  It's all in her head, of course, but try telling her that.  Really, please try telling her.  I've not had any luck with it; perhaps you will.

A couple of months ago, she sweetly said that it would be nice to have a small travel trailer that we could leave at mom's place.  That way, she explained, she would have a place to collect her brood and know that she wasn't bothering anyone.  In so doing, she could finally get a good night's sleep while visiting.

She had something like this in mind:

I wasn't too wild about a little-bitty thing like that, but, whatever.  All I could imagine is how many times I'd bump my head and scrape my shins.  I have to tell you, I wasn't warm to the idea.  I was willing, but it didn't sound like very much fun.

Then she kept on researching.  She discovered that one could get an older motor home for a reasonable price.

Unfortunately, that little discovery unleashed an avalanche.  Before we knew it, we were knee-deep in motor homes for sale.

Up until this point in my life, I'd never wanted a motor home.  Now all I could see was me cruising across the country with my house strapped to my back.  Johnny Appleseed and Lewis & Clark eat your hearts out!

I had the fever.

It all culminated with our new prize possession: A 1994 Foretravel Grand Villa 40' motor home.

As you can see, it's just a variation of what she originally wanted.  Sorta.

Those who know me know that I have a bit of a problem with knowing when to stop.  I have a tendency to do 'do-biggers.'  Well, this is one of my more spectacular do-biggers.

As for my knowledge of motor homes, we can just put it at zero and move on.  I'd never even been in one; now I had to drive the damn thing.

It was in Colorado.  We are in East Texas.  If you've ever looked at a map, you know that it's a bit of a drive from here to yonder.

But, our loins were girded.

Besides, my son Caleb lives in Denver.  Can you say two birds with one exhausting trip??

We loaded up the puppy, installed the kid with grandparents, and hit the road.  We wisely choose to drive all night to get there.  That way, we could be at our most exhausted when I was given lessons about how to work a machine that makes the Apollo capsule seem like a middle school science fair project.  Houston, we have a problem.

My lesson was short and quick.  The well-meaning seller, Alan, just buzzed along telling me this and that.  Every once in a while, he'd say something that I understood.  The rest of the time, he sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher.

Confident that I was making a magnificent error in judgment, we coaxed the Wonder Dog into the bus, turned the key, and herded it 'tween the ditches.

In the dark.

On a narrow road.

Down a mountain.

Fiancé was driving behind me as she watched me, the dog, and the bus careen down a mountain.

I was later informed that she was having a mental breakdown during this time.  Apparently, she was worried about the dog.

As luck would have it, her cell phone didn't work in the mountains.  Thanks be to Heaven.  I took that as a sign that things might be about to swing my way.  With luck like that maybe we should do a little detour to Vegas and give it a go.

Yes, things were going swimmingly.

The next night we went out to dinner with my son Caleb and his lovely, diminutive wife, Kaci.  It was delightful.

I should have known that this was an omen.

When we arrived back to the bus, the puppy had locked the door from the inside.

It was about 11:00 p.m. and I was locked out of my brand-new bus in a Wal-Mart parking lot.

Everything was going about like usual.  It was nice to get back to normal.

So much for Vegas.

We ciphered on the problem for a bit when someone had the excellent idea to call a locksmith.

Unbelievably, we found a guy who was willing to charge me enough for a kidney transplant to come grind the door handle mechanism into oblivion.  I was thrilled.

While he was grinding, the dog was redecorating the living room.  He's very feng shui for an English Mastiff.  I would have expected a more traditional living space from him.

While Dutch the Wonder Dog was busy, we were dealing with Don.  Don was a friendly passerby who was higher than Mt. Everest.  Think Tommy Chong, but not as funny.  Or as clean.

He desperately wanted to help.  I was trying to be civil, so I thanked him for his concern.  He said, "No problem, man.  My give-a-shit ain't broke." 

That intoxicated remark is a lesson to us all.  I think.  But, maybe not.  Maybe my give-a-shit is broke.  I prolly won't figure it out without some now-legal Colorado pharmaceuticals.  In case you're wondering, that means that I won't be figuring it out.

We turned toward home the next morning.

Endless highways, Wonder Dog potty breaks, Wal-Mart parking lots, truck stops, and rest areas later, we were home.

Amazingly, the Eagle had landed.

TheCurmudgeon