Kind Strangers
I'd say what day this is, but I've permanently lost track. This is: getting the Winnebago to the dealership day. It's also the day I'll see peaceful waters. I leave at 7am, hoping I'll miss the heat of the day and get there by the time the dealership opens. I only have to get this thing 6.6 miles, and only one of those miles is on the interstate. I pack up as many gallons of water as I can, and head out. By mile one, I have a cloud of smoke. I stop, add 3 gallons, open all the windows and let it cool down. Let the heat gauge drop. An hour later, I'm off again. This happens every mile; sometimes I have to stop for an hour, sometimes two. But nothing's going to get me down today! I have a camper! Things are looking up, since Jesse is going to either be laid to rest or resurrected, and I don't care which. That Winnebago did so well in the winter; I don't think she likes the heat.
About mile 3, I pulled into a parking lot. I jumped out and asked for water from the guy inside. He was more than friendly, super helpful, and came out later to point me towards the hose on the side of the building and to tell me if there was anything they could do, they'd be happy to help. That was great!
I pulled the dogs out of the hot camper as the heat gauge refused to slide left, and we sat under a tree for an hour. That's when a woman in her 60s pulled up in a huge truck, rolled down the window and yelled, "Hey! I'm going for a drink at Sonic, want anything?" Generally I'd have said no, no, that's okay, but I was HOT and that sounded like heaven. She returns with a Coke and a glass of ice for the dogs. Says she lives in a camper at the KOA and this is her massage place, in this little strip mall on Lovers Lane. This tiny kindness, of just getting me a drink, really struck me. I think about it a lot. It's just the smallest thing, but soooo nice. I'll remember that one, and definitely pass it along. I offered to pay for the drink, which she denied, just telling me to pay it forward. Then she gave me directions and her card, said to call if she could help. I kept her card, a bunch of cards. I'm mailing postcards to all of those who've helped me. Let them know how nice it was, because the whole thing, the seven hours it took to get 6.6 miles, wouldn't have been tolerable without them.
I called AAA. They weren't much help. I googled towing companies, nobody would come except one guy who said he could come up from Nashville (60 miles away) by late afternoon. Nope, I have two miles to go. Just two miles. I'm afraid to get on the interstate, afraid I'll choke out, quit and get hit and it will be an incredible mess that the news talks about for 30 seconds, and people will find parts of me all over the county. So the plan, is just to hover in the right lane, so I can throw it out of the interstate if it quits. I only made it 3/4 of a mile from the nice masseuse. Sat on the side of the exit onto the interstate, worried, calling more tow trucks. Nobody could do it. Or would. Sat there for an hour, oven mitt to remove the radiator cap and put more water in since I'd used that hose and filled everything again. Strapped up my courage and flew down the interstate... at 40 mph.
Pulled into the RV place, completely victorious. I wanted to high five everyone there. I wanted to be that car commercial where they jump really high and pull their arm back like, YESSSSS! I was proud of myself; none of this really got to me. I just pulled over each time when the smoke got too heavy and poured water on the problem. I had a happy thought too-- today I'd see peaceful waters. He was texting updates of where he was, and at one point my only fear was that he'd beat me to the KOA before this hot mess could get a shower. Thanks to the showers and hail that made him pull off the road and wait out the weather a few times.
I rented a tiny cabin at KOA, summoned an uber to get me back, when Mark at the dealership said he'd have John drive me. That was really nice of him. John picked me up the next day too, to bring me back. John worked for GM for 31 years; they had a plant in Bowling Green. John said he and his wife had planned to do what I'm doing, but before she could retire she got too sick. "Do it now, do whatever you want to now, don't wait," he told me.
Dude laid her head on John's lap as he drove us. He has a dog too, after his granddaughter insisted they have one. She picked out a mutt, he said, at the pound. I didn't have to take Dude's word for it, but every time she saw him, she wildly wagged her tail. We both knew John is a real good human.
Peaceful waters shows up, with two beers, and I can tell he's searching me to see if I'm completely frazzled. I'm not. A few years ago, this would have all gotten to me. I'd have totally panicked about all of it, and just the futility of my day. But every time something bad happens, something good seems to follow, and the thought of what the good thing is going to be gets me through the bad thing.
Just a masseuse with a pop and a glass of ice can get you through a lot. I've learned, over the years, to keep happy thoughts. Most of the time my happy thoughts are all people I met in Las Vegas while working at the Bunkhouse, and many times it was the Vietnam vet who cleaned the parking lot of the bar. He's been my happy thought to get me through stuff so many times. I suppose he was the best teacher I'd ever had. His kindness always shined through, even when the world was being completely unjust. His bike was stolen. He was beaten up for his VA check. He tried to help a lost child and was accused of being a bad guy. But there's no evil in Joseph VanAsch, the Air Force pilot who just lost too many things to keep thinking society was right about what's important. So he dropped out, and gave the shirt off his back to every single person he met. Even now. And the world just keeps being unjust. He lost his trailer home to the gentrification of downtown. They had to get rid of those, you know, so they could put in fancy airstream trailers for the hipsters to stay in and take selfies by for Instagram. That's so much more important than seeing after the world's best man. I wrote to them, many times, begged them to leave his trailer, that they wouldn't regret it, that the neighborhood needed him. Those letters fell on deaf ears. Those people care about money and ego, and beyond that? Not much.
About mile 3, I pulled into a parking lot. I jumped out and asked for water from the guy inside. He was more than friendly, super helpful, and came out later to point me towards the hose on the side of the building and to tell me if there was anything they could do, they'd be happy to help. That was great!
I pulled the dogs out of the hot camper as the heat gauge refused to slide left, and we sat under a tree for an hour. That's when a woman in her 60s pulled up in a huge truck, rolled down the window and yelled, "Hey! I'm going for a drink at Sonic, want anything?" Generally I'd have said no, no, that's okay, but I was HOT and that sounded like heaven. She returns with a Coke and a glass of ice for the dogs. Says she lives in a camper at the KOA and this is her massage place, in this little strip mall on Lovers Lane. This tiny kindness, of just getting me a drink, really struck me. I think about it a lot. It's just the smallest thing, but soooo nice. I'll remember that one, and definitely pass it along. I offered to pay for the drink, which she denied, just telling me to pay it forward. Then she gave me directions and her card, said to call if she could help. I kept her card, a bunch of cards. I'm mailing postcards to all of those who've helped me. Let them know how nice it was, because the whole thing, the seven hours it took to get 6.6 miles, wouldn't have been tolerable without them.
I called AAA. They weren't much help. I googled towing companies, nobody would come except one guy who said he could come up from Nashville (60 miles away) by late afternoon. Nope, I have two miles to go. Just two miles. I'm afraid to get on the interstate, afraid I'll choke out, quit and get hit and it will be an incredible mess that the news talks about for 30 seconds, and people will find parts of me all over the county. So the plan, is just to hover in the right lane, so I can throw it out of the interstate if it quits. I only made it 3/4 of a mile from the nice masseuse. Sat on the side of the exit onto the interstate, worried, calling more tow trucks. Nobody could do it. Or would. Sat there for an hour, oven mitt to remove the radiator cap and put more water in since I'd used that hose and filled everything again. Strapped up my courage and flew down the interstate... at 40 mph.
Pulled into the RV place, completely victorious. I wanted to high five everyone there. I wanted to be that car commercial where they jump really high and pull their arm back like, YESSSSS! I was proud of myself; none of this really got to me. I just pulled over each time when the smoke got too heavy and poured water on the problem. I had a happy thought too-- today I'd see peaceful waters. He was texting updates of where he was, and at one point my only fear was that he'd beat me to the KOA before this hot mess could get a shower. Thanks to the showers and hail that made him pull off the road and wait out the weather a few times.
I rented a tiny cabin at KOA, summoned an uber to get me back, when Mark at the dealership said he'd have John drive me. That was really nice of him. John picked me up the next day too, to bring me back. John worked for GM for 31 years; they had a plant in Bowling Green. John said he and his wife had planned to do what I'm doing, but before she could retire she got too sick. "Do it now, do whatever you want to now, don't wait," he told me.
Dude laid her head on John's lap as he drove us. He has a dog too, after his granddaughter insisted they have one. She picked out a mutt, he said, at the pound. I didn't have to take Dude's word for it, but every time she saw him, she wildly wagged her tail. We both knew John is a real good human.
Peaceful waters shows up, with two beers, and I can tell he's searching me to see if I'm completely frazzled. I'm not. A few years ago, this would have all gotten to me. I'd have totally panicked about all of it, and just the futility of my day. But every time something bad happens, something good seems to follow, and the thought of what the good thing is going to be gets me through the bad thing.
Just a masseuse with a pop and a glass of ice can get you through a lot. I've learned, over the years, to keep happy thoughts. Most of the time my happy thoughts are all people I met in Las Vegas while working at the Bunkhouse, and many times it was the Vietnam vet who cleaned the parking lot of the bar. He's been my happy thought to get me through stuff so many times. I suppose he was the best teacher I'd ever had. His kindness always shined through, even when the world was being completely unjust. His bike was stolen. He was beaten up for his VA check. He tried to help a lost child and was accused of being a bad guy. But there's no evil in Joseph VanAsch, the Air Force pilot who just lost too many things to keep thinking society was right about what's important. So he dropped out, and gave the shirt off his back to every single person he met. Even now. And the world just keeps being unjust. He lost his trailer home to the gentrification of downtown. They had to get rid of those, you know, so they could put in fancy airstream trailers for the hipsters to stay in and take selfies by for Instagram. That's so much more important than seeing after the world's best man. I wrote to them, many times, begged them to leave his trailer, that they wouldn't regret it, that the neighborhood needed him. Those letters fell on deaf ears. Those people care about money and ego, and beyond that? Not much.
What? AAA was no help?! I was going to get their RV add-on too, just like you did, but maybe I should do Good Sam instead?
ReplyDeleteAnd Janet was the name of your RV that you traded? My cousin had recommended that I call my RV “Flo”. I told her I liked it, and unless something else came along that struck my fancy, I’d roll with it. Then yesterday I was rambling to someone about the fact that I may have bit off more than I can chew with this huge 34-footer, and it came to me: Big Flo! Haha! I giggle a little every time I say it .... it’s so perfectly menopausal, so fitting! 😂
Darn, you can’t edit on here like you can on FB, can you? I see my error - have bitten, not have bit!
ReplyDeleteLol! Big Flo is awesome! Wish you could've done the adventure with her, but maybe you're better off; I didn't have the best time with mine!
ReplyDelete