How to tell you’ve been in one place too long.
Things not to do while motorhoming
This one did not happen to us. I don’t want it to. “We had a scary experience after crossing the border back into Alaska. We lost popcan (our tow car), and didn’t even know it. We went 27 miles before we discovered it missing. Luckily no-one was hurt with the exception of popcan ($5,500 worth of damage). What happened is that the receiver on the motorhome cracked and broke. It didn’t do much damage to the motorhome. The tow bar messed up the bottom rung of the ladder and took the paint off in a very small spot. It was a scary feeling though, when we realized the car was gone and not knowing if anyone had gotten hurt.” Could this happen to anyone else? We have safety cables in case the hitch breaks, but guess what the safety cables are attached to; loops on the sides of the receiver. Our tow car braking system has a breakaway cable. If the car separates from the motorhome and the safety cables don’t stop it for some reason, the breakaway cable pulls a plug and the Jeep brakes are fully applied. The Jeep might crash, or someone else might run into it, but it won’t run on indefinitely at sixty miles per hour. But guess what the breakaway cable is attached to… The receiver is a big chunk of steel. Who would expect that to break apart?
Basalt
Judy came home again. A return from Louisville on Saturday. Today we returned the rental car she has had since the first of July; the little white PT Cruiser (so she could drive back and forth to Louisville). We spent every bit of the first two years on the road together. In our third year, we’ve separated three times. Enough of that. We’re back together like we should be; one car between us; we’re done doing things separately. Home is where you park it.
1953
Summer 1953. Seven years old. Wearing roller skates. Not shoes with roller skates built in like you could get at the roller rink, but roller skates the way they used to be. Metal frames with wheels. They adjust to the length of your shoe. The heel of the skate straps to your ankle. The front is held on by a clamp that hooks over the edge of the sole of your shoe. The clamp adjusts with a “skate key”. The front clamp works some of the time. It doesn’t work well at all with tennis shoes. At best, it seems to work just long enough for you to get up some speed; then the next stride find yourself with one roller skate on and the other dangling from your ankle by the strap. We’re in Seal Beach. I’m next door at Marlena and Judy Prebble’s house, on the porch, on my roller skates. I ring the bell, but the doorbell button isn’t where it is supposed to be. It is several inches too low. Wearing roller skates changes my perspective. Doorbells aren’t where I expect them to be. Neither are steps and curbs. At forty I needed reading glasses. That didn’t change my perspective. I wore the glasses to read. I took them off to walk. At sixty I got a real prescription; just a little correction for distance. Not much, but enough to change my perspective. Now I have glasses I’m supposed to wear while I’m walking around. It feels like 1953. It feels like I’m several inches taller. My feet are not where they’re supposed to be. Curbs are not where they are supposed to be either. When I discovered the difference roller skates made, I had seven years experience with where my feet were supposed to be. Now I’m supposed to adjust sixty years of experience?
Basalt
I spend a fair amount of time around people speaking languages other than English (mostly Spanish). It is strange but pleasant. It’s like listening to music I don’t understand, but I like the sound.