Traveling Through Life

When people go on vacation they like to think they are leaving all their troubles behind them. Of course, that’s not true, as most everyone packs it all up to go along with them. This is no truer than with those who pull a camper down the road behind the family truckster.

I grew up in a family that experienced the full spectrum of portable living from small campers to large motorhomes. We started out with a pop-up camper that a determined eight-year old boy could pull around the yard just to prove he could. One day (probably a rainy one at a mosquito-infested state park) dad realized that five kids in a 6 x 8 foot space wasn’t going to work, so instead of leaving half of us (the boys) at home with Grandma, he bought a bigger pop-up and brought Grandma with us on our camping trips.

I learned a lot about myself and how others live together in small confines.

My mother thought we looked like a bunch of gypsies going down the road – and I guess being a family of Irish and Bohemians, she was right.

Mom thought brown paper bags solved all the worlds packing problems. They were light, portable, and strong. The sounds of a paper bag being ransacked, folded over, crinkled and crunched in the early hours can set the tone for almost any day by waking everyone up in the camper and the surrounding park. Now, as an adult, I will involuntarily convulse whenever the checkout clerk asks, “Paper or plastic?”

Mom also took it upon herself to be in charge of who had to go to the bathroom and when. I guess it was about two or three in the morning when she would wake everyone up and make Dad take a few of us across a dark campground to the modestly appointed outhouses that were surprisingly unoccupied at that hour. Dressed in our camp shorts, we made quite a parade, but we were never afraid of being accosted by wild animals during those early morning jaunts – at that hour Dad was a bear and no living thing would dare challenge him.

Once we were back in the camper Mom would lull us to sleep by rearranging the contents of her brown paper bags. Once things quieted down you didn’t dare move in your bed, as that would shake the whole camper and stir Dad to gently remind you to “Lie Still!”

The other day I heard about a couple, presumably retirement age, who no longer live in a building. Now to a large segment of the world’s population who live in tents and huts this is not considered unusual, but I thought it odd. These crazy people live in a genuine mobile home. They drive it around the country staying in parks and campgrounds and occasionally descending on their friends and relatives for what must seem like an eternity for their hosts.

I don’t think I could ever do that (be the hosts or the itinerant travelers); I like my permanent home too much. But occasionally, my wife and I will pack up the camper and search for adventure. I keep one eye on the road and another on the mirror to make sure trouble doesn’t follow us.