Life on the road

 

The other day I was idly scrolling through those news clips that are designed to hook you when you first log in to the internet—I think on my server they are from msn. But I came across a post about upscale RVs available today. I don’t know if you of you ever traveled in a Winnebago or not, but I am here to tell you they are passé.

There were RVs worth up to $5 million, though that was the top end. Several in the $2 million range—lots more than the value of my house on its nice, secure piece of Texas land. The décor in these expensive monsters ranged from dark wood, a kind of men’s club atmosphere, to bleached wood that shouted “moderne.” They all had fairly efficient kitchen areas, small tables for eating, parallel couches along the sides of the “living space,” and king-size beds in the bedroom.

I got to wondering: if you have a motor home worth that much—and probably bigger than you’re average Winnebago, though I don’t know that—do you hire a driver or trust the man of the family to learn to drive the behemoth?

It all took me back forty-some years to when Joel, my ex, and I borrowed a Winnebago that belong to a friend of a friend and took our four very young children back to Missouri to how them where we’d met and gone to school—as if at six and under, they cared. But we did. Joel drove, which when I think on it was the first bit of folly. He never learned to drive until he was twenty—what kid in the Bronx had a car?—and then he was self-taught. From what I understand Winnebagos offered as much protection as a sardine can—if they were hit, everything fell apart and the contents scattered everywhere.

But we did fine until we got to Kanas. On the other side of Topeka, the RV just suddenly quit. We called for help and then sat on the edge of a cornfield waiting for help. When I think today on how vulnerable we were, sitting in that dead vehicle, I shudder with fear. But a truck came, towed us back to Topeka, and we left the Winnebago for repair and departed in one of those converted truck campers with a sleeping space squeezed in over the cab.

The kids thought it was great fun, even when the refrigerator flew open and cottage cheese went all over the place. Still I managed some good meals in that confined space. I still remember one night we had meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. We had stopped to visit friends in Missouri, and their teen-age son came out to eat with us. In a moment still famous in family history, he said, “Oops, I sat in my mashed potatoes.”

We saw friends in Omaha and Missouri and had a thoroughly good time. I liked sitting on a comfortable couch, watching the scenery go by. It was, to me, like a train trip—and I had always adored trains. We had other minor catastrophes, though now I can’t really remember them. Jamie replayed for me, scene by scene, an outdoor event he says we went to and he remembers clearly. He would have been about three. I have no recollection of it, but I trust him because we always say he remembers everything since he came out of the womb.

Today? I don’t think I have the nerve to undertake such a trip. Unless maybe it was in one of those luxury vans with a hired driver who doubled as a bodyguard (what a sad state our country is in!). But then where would the driver sleep? With the family?

I think I’ll stick to my pandemic policy: close to home is best.

Tonight I did venture out to a restaurant with friend Carol. For some time, we have enjoyed the fried chicken from chef Keith Hix. We were devastated when he closed his Buttons restaurant and moved to Burleson, then elated when he opened a branch in Fort Worth. The Rim is in the Waterside complex off South Bryant Irvin. The fried chicken is as wonderful as ever, the mashed potatoes beyond compare (with some secret ingredient beside the ton of butter). Ordering from the wine list? Order the top of the line. Carol and I enjoyed it, and we’ll go back—for the chicken.