Tell Me How I Surprise You

I just found this picture during my big family photo scanning project, and it’s prompted new thoughts about the book I’m planning.

Paul and I are walking back from grad school graduation. Look how young and happy! I was extra relieved because this was on the heels of me almost flunking the oral defense of my thesis (which is a long story for another post).

Back to the book, though. I’ve been having fun learning how to use writing software called Scrivener. It’s helped me organize my ideas and hone them.

As for the basics: clearly, it’s gonna be a memoir from a life on the road. As for the details: think of it as a creature I’m building (can you tell I’m reading Frankenstein?). The skeleton will be stories and reflections from traveling, and the marrow of those bones will be what this lifestyle reveals about my self, and ultimately about Self. 

Yes, it’s ambitious, but a girl can dream, right? In my defense, that thesis that caused me so much trouble was on women narrating their pasts. So, since as far back as the early ‘90s, I’ve been interested in the relationships of memory, narrative, and identity.

I have more plans, but I’m keeping my creature under a sheet for right now.

What I need help with is the travel stuff. I don’t want to ramble on about all the places I’ve seen and whine about campground life (at least not too much). I do want to keep the reader fascinated about my outer life as I reel her in to the inner life.

So, can you jot down any answers to:

What have I written that you’re surprised about?

For example, my bestie Heather said she loves to tell people about her friend who spent a kazillion dollars on an Airstream and then does her laundry in a five-gallon bucket with a plunger.

As a thanks for your help, here are a few stories of people we’ve met on the road that I’ve put all together in a folder in that wiring software. I’m not saying this is great writing, but fellow blogger Mark from Mark My Words did once ask me for stories like this. And, lo and behold, turns out I have a bunch of them.

The Are-You-Dangerous Game

Not Dangerous on Mars

What are the chances you’d sit down across from me, with your ukulele and your son studying high-energy physics?

I was riding my bike around some of the neighborhoods yesterday, getting a feel for the place, when I heard a guy playing music by his delivery-truck-turned camper. I stopped to listen, and lo and behold, he was playing intricate jazz on a ukulele.

I stepped closer so he could see me (but not to invade his space), and cleared my throat. Turns out he’s friendly, and as I stepped even closer (you never know), I asked if he’d be willing to give me a ukulele lesson.

“What do you need; what would you trade for a lesson?” I asked.

”Well, I’m not doing anything right now except struggling with a few strange chords, so giving me something to do would be a good trade.”

”Deal. And I’ll bring beer, if you’d like.”

”Two beers, if you have them!”’

“Ha, I love this about nomadic life.”

“Yeah, meeting other people who have absolutely nothing to do!”

And thus began a delightful afternoon spent with a stranger. I booked it back to the trailer, grabbed my uke and a couple of beers, and rode back to his site with this all on my back. Luckily he has a spare chair and a table where we sat across from each other. We started on some music theory (which I hate), and when I explained that my son tells me I would make easier progress if I learned the basics, he asked about my son, and I of course bragged, and he smiled and showed me his t-shirt.

What a coincidence we would sit across this table with each other, he said. This image is the icon that stands for a particle physics experiment that tipped previous theories on their heads, apparently. I won’t go into the fuzzy details I learned, but let’s say our discussion about physics led to philosophy.

Well, it was a wild ride; for a long while, I enjoyed physics talk with a guy playing jazz ukulele whom I stopped to share a beer with and learn a few new chords from.

His story is so varied it involves professional ballet dancers, electron microscopes, and a dog named D’artagnan. Maybe I’ll hang out with him again and get permission to tell you more. [Hint, we did hang out several times again, as recently as this year in Montana.}

Probably Not Dangerous on Mars

I’d offer you a ride back on my bike, but your husband wouldn’t appreciate it if I delivered you with a cracked skull. These roads are super rocky.

Another guy I met gave me tons of info about the area; we passed each other on the road twice so finally he just stopped his motorcycle so we could chat instead of waving over and over. He’s in the photo at the very top. I received lots of tips about where to go and what to do in the area, a map he dug out from a compartment on his bike, and generally good vibes. He’s been spending his winters here for the past decade, I believe. His bike is a BMW and definitely not made for these ridiculous paths they call roads.

The next morning, we were standing outside his trailer; he was wearing slippers, me cowboy boots, and Banjo kept trying to sniff him in inappropriate places. He nevertheless surprised me, just as I was thinking his claim to being super observant was maybe all talk, with a compliment for my new earrings, which he described to a T plus why they suit me. Never mind that he thought my name is Stella. I vote him Not Dangerous (probably).

Dangerous on Mars

His stories were all about his dangerous neighbors, though. One had been burning plastics, and when J. confronted him about it, the burner guy was volatile, scary. And now that a new guy has moved in who leaves his dog tied up all morning when he drives off, and the dog howls and whines the whole day. J. is, let’s say, reluctant to approach this guy. And there are no camp hosts or park rangers doing rounds here, just volunteers riding their electric bikes wearing safety vests, counting the RVs (618 so far). They don’t want trouble. J. has decided to stay away from the Dangerous-or-Not-Game and keep to himself over there.

[Update: Scary Neighbor’s #1’s bus was surrounded and broken into by, possibly, a SWAT team one day. We don’t know if he was in it or not.]

Probably Not Dangerous on Mars

Need Help with Your Trash?

This afternoon I embarked on my routine, 2.5-mile round-trip walk with our trash to the dumpsters. I like the exercise, plus I like seeing all the campers and watching their progress on their projects and feeling like I have a neighborhood for this brief period. I’m also amused by how many guys stop to ask me if I need help with my trash.

Seriously, almost every time I walk to the dumpsters, some guy stops his truck, ATV, motorbike, whatever, and offers me a ride or offers to simply take my trash for me. Sweet, right?

Maybe. Most likely. Today I got stopped twice in the first mile. On my way back I passed a guy walking his trash, so I asked him, “Hey, do people stop and offer to help you with your trash?”

He replies, “Nope.” But then he asks,

“Are they men?”

“Okay, yes, they’re men.”

“Well, there’s your answer.”

We joke a bit about human nature, and as we start walking in opposite directions, he asks if I’ll take his trash for him. Ha! I like him. Not Dangerous (probably).

Not Dangerous in Central Florida

You’re lucky no one’s called you a Yankee yet.

One of the camp hosts came by while we were sitting out on the riverbank, and we saw her approach by coming up the river in her fishing boat. She tied that to a tree, then ambled over to us with cigarette in mouth and beer in hand, plus her two dogs, Rebel and Hook (off leash, of course)—to welcome us.

We had a light-hearted, colorful conversation about her and her husband retiring and starting out as camp hosts here in a forest they love, but the last big hurricane wiped out their bricks-and-sticks home in Georgia and flattened the trees on their hunting land up there, so now they’re here for good, seemingly.

Just like the lady who makes tamales a little west on this same shoreline, our host Linda wants to travel in an RV in retirement, but her husband loves being a camp host. He walks these dirt roads several times a day with the two dogs and enjoys helping the park staff with upkeep. Linda fishes five days a week while Glen works the park land. (Her fishing goal is 30 catfish and brim every week, 10 for them on Friday night and 20 for the dogs. The big dog Hook won’t eat brim so she tries to keep more catfish to be sure he gets enough. His hips are going bad, bless his heart.)

There was a lot of, “We’re fixing to decide on how long to stay” and “I gave that guy hell because I was needin’ to get down the road to go fishin’!” In one story she referred to herself as “the girl” when in another story she said she’s 65 years old. All while smoking out the side of her mouth and drinking Miller Light in a can. She had only three fish biting that day. Southern women, I love them.

When I told her I’m from Virginia, she said with a smile, “You’re lucky no one’s called you a Yankee yet.”

Probably Not Dangerous in Central Florida

This county park is used a ton, when you think of how few people probably live around here. They show up to:

• sit on a picnic table and eat lunch looking out over the Suwannee,
• throw huge amounts of trash in the dumpster at all hours,
• fish from the docks,
• make campfires by pulling apart old pallets and by hacking down small trees that happen to be right next to our tent,
• let their children ride skateboards down the boat ramp so they can fly face-first into the river if they’re lucky; if the skateboard gets caught on debris at the edge of the water, not so lucky with where their faces land.

It’s cool to see people outside, using the park, being social. It’s a little unnerving that we’re the only campers here, so we stand out like weird rich Texans with our new license plates. I’d worry but for the friendly kind of Southern culture that reminds me about the best of the South.

Does Mama drive the truck?

That’s was what an old guy asked Tracy as they stood around the boat ramp chatting yesterday morning. He quickly added as I walked up,

I call all women, “Mama.”

Yes, sir, I understand how that works. My own daddy was called “Bubba,” even though his name was Stewart.

And yesterday while the skateboarding boys were trying to hit each other over the head with their boards, Mama promised that “Sissy needs a new diaper and then we’ll go home to the trampoline.”

The man who called me “Mama” turns out to be 80 years old, and he drives around the county but hasn’t driven “over in Gainesville” (a pause before “Gainesville” like he was trying to remember the name) for ten years. We get a detailed and amusing story from him about the last time he drove there and almost turned into the wrong lane in an intersection—told only the way an old southern guy can who’s standing around after breakfast on the edge of a river with nothing else to do.

Not Dangerous: An Hour in Arkansas

Yesterday I went on an hour-long walk through our camping loop and around the park, stretching out my exercise as much as possible. Here’s what happened.

1:10 pm = Very High Maintenance Guys

Within five minutes of walking, I’m up by the closed pool, and a white maintenance truck drives toward me. I slow down to see which way they’re going to turn at the intersection. They slow down. The driver’s window opens. We both stop right there in the road, and the driver and I stare at each other. Awkward silence for a minute. Finally, I start the dialogue.

“I thought you were going to tell me something.”

“No, we’re just trying to turn in here to work on the pool!”

All three of us break out into smiles, and then huge hilarity ensues, like we’ve just had the most amazing conversation of a lifetime. Pot smoke is pouring out of the truck window. We are just so funny. I smile as I walk on.

1:20 = Park Interpreter Doesn’t Know Skunks from Bears

I stop at the park office to ask about the owl walk that evening. The interpreter who will lead the walk comes out of the back, and he’s about 18 and very shy. Because the one nature trail is closed, he says, “Basically, we’re going to walk around the campground, listening to owls.” Okay.

I ask him about skunk deterrence (see below on why), and he offers up:

“Maybe skunks are like bears and you have to get all big and noisy to scare them off.”

Dude, the reason the skunk chases me is because my dog is barking at it. Making noise does not deter it. Also, he had no idea there were skunks in the campground, and, apparently, that skunks are the main prey of barred owls, which are the only ones we hear at night here.

I’m not going on that owl hike with him.

1:40 = “Repent Now” Kids

As I walk on, I hear shouting. Wow, other people are actually here! Turns out to be a bunch of kids playing volleyball and on the playground. Then, I notice that the vans parked near them all have strongly worded stickers on them warning the person driving behind to “REPENT for your sins before it’s too late.” Yikes. Better walk quickly.

A couple of very small children come toward me riding very small electric skateboards. The tiny girl starts in to her friend:

“Get out of the road!”

“Why?”

“Just, get out of the road!”

“But, why?”

“Because THAT LADY is coming!”

Apparently, the rule is to get out of the road no matter what is coming, even someone wearing an old grey tee shirt that says URBAN BOXING on it over knee-high workout pants and hiking boots. I thanked them, they stared at me like I was an alien, and I walked on.

1:50 = Oh, Leland.

They’re not even in my proverbial rear view mirror when here comes Leland, trotting at his own damned pace up the road toward me.

Leland visits our campsite at least once a day, to drink from Banjo’s water bucket, to sniff around, and to see if he can get away with peeing on the corner of the screen tent. If we see him at that, we yell, which has not enamored him to Banjo one bit.

Leland is the park dog, according to the not-high (as far as I could tell) other maintenance staff. He lives up the road at one of the lake houses, but he makes his rounds of the campground several times a day,m. As Tracy says, he takes rejection well: we fuss at him and do our level best not to be friendly (which is hard), and he just looks at us quizzically and then moves on.

1:55 = More Critters Than We Can Shake a Stick at, Literally

Finally, I’m approaching the campsite, but damnit if there’s that skunk in the road, coming right toward me. This is the same skunk that lives in the culvert by the campsite, and at dawn when Banjo and I walk, it comes out to scare us away, tail high and loping a bee line at Banjo.

Banjo, of course, pulls toward it, and I pull her away, and I feel like I’m leading a little frantic parade at dawn down the campground road, me in the lead, pulling Banjo behind me, with the skunk closing in.

What I don’t understand is how that skunk can start out chasing us on one side of the loop and then show up totally on the other side, faster than we can. Finally, Tracy solves the mystery: at night while he’s walking, he sees two skunks. He also sees: opossums, armadillos, a grey fox, and plenty of deer. Plus, sometimes, Leland.

2:05: The Circle Closes

As I step up to the trailer, the high maintenance guys drive by, and we wave to each other like mad because, you know, we’re totally best friends.

Dangerous in Nevada

Here’s the weird neighbor part, which I’m reluctant to give details about because the guy could be in dire straights and I don’t want to appear to be making light of his situation. But he’s doing an odd job of hiding for some reason, and I’m not going to ask him if I can help, like I did with the mom and her kids near Tijuana. In fact, we’ve been locking the trailer when we go for walks here, which is a first.

Of all the spread-apart campsites in this park, this guy pulls his truck into the spot right next to ours, like, right there. Seriously, I don’t think there are any two closer campsites in the entire park. And of the 50 sites here, maybe five are occupied.

Now that I think about it though, he could have been gone while we pulled in right next to his campsite. Evidence says this isn’t the case though. Behold:

• There’s a woman in there with him, but we’ve never seen her. She literally never leaves the truck, although I’ve seen him get a pillow out of the back for her. We know she’s in there because she makes vague sounds, rarely.
• He arrives in the early morning, around 7:00, and stays in his truck all danged day long. For 12 hours. Then he drives away for the night.
• For all those hours, we don’t see him or her walk away from the truck to use the bathroom or get food or stretch their legs. No sign of her, and no walking around for him.
• He does get out of the driver’s seat every now and then to measure the truck cap and sort through coolers and buckets he’s got in the back.
• He spends a lot of time on the phone.
• He’s payed for his spot—$20/night—but doesn’t sleep there.

Theories about why he’s there:

• Maybe he’s recently homeless and is gathering data to turn his truck into a truck camper.
• Maybe he’s dealing drugs and delivering at night.
• Maybe the woman with him is very sick and he’s isolating her and taking care of her.
• Maybe he’s kidnapped this woman.
• Maybe he’s giving her a place to shoot up (from the sounds we hear, this is a possibility).
• Maybe he’s going to a homeless shelter each night that requires you to leave during the day.

The last theory seems likely, but we’re 30 minutes from the nearest town (Madera), and he’s paying $20/night when he could park nearly anywhere. And where does he put the human waste he and the woman must produce during the day?

Update: Since I wrote this post, the guy has moved his truck to a campsite nearby, but at least not right on top of us. We joked that he must’ve mumbled to himself about those obnoxious, rich-ass Airstream idiots right on top of him. But there’s a park ranger here, so he had to go change his campsite with her, and she drives by every day to check on things and sees him just sitting in the driver’s seat.

I have an acquaintance (my sister’s friend) who lives out of his truck because his plans to move his sailboat (that he used to live in) have been stalled mid-transport. And we saw plenty of people living in their cars in the campground near Las Vegas. But there’s something different about this guy. For one thing, he’s paying for the spot but not using the bathroom, which I’m guessing is a bit reason why Folks who live in their vehicles pay for campgrounds.

Now that he’s moved away from us, he’s spending the night here, too. That solves one mystery. What about the woman, though? He’s too far away for me to hear if she’s still in the truck with him.

We’ve had a bunch of sketchy campground neighbors, from the murder-bragging ex-con in Ohio to the guy so clearly dealing drugs from his camper in Missouri. The only time I was tempted to call the cops was for the guy in Missouri because, for a while, he had a couple of little kids with him and I could hear shouts from inside, but, seriously, it sounded like they were playing video games. I’m certainly not going to rat out this guy unless it really does look like he’s holding that woman against her will, and I’m not seeing any signs of that. Plus, again, he had to interact with the park ranger—while in his truck—to book his site and then to change it.

Not Dangerous in Florida

Pro tip: Never book a campsite on the inside of a campground loop.

We’re wedged in here at Collier-Seminole State Park like one of the pie pieces in a Trivial Pursuit game. The folks on the outside of the loop all have plenty of space to set up chairs and tents, but we can’t open our awning.

Trees to the left of us, campers to the right of us. Stuck in the middle again.

Actually, the camper to the right of us could be categorized as a joker (you know: ‘Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right”), but that would be mean-spirited. He’s an old hippie—older than we are!—with long, greying yellow hair and a headband, plus a big ol’ chopper that he unloaded from the back of his trailer/camper.

Last night before he lit his campfire, he sat in the evening sun with his shirt unbuttoned and ate a gallon of ice cream out of the container. This morning I watched him sit out in his chair, fill his bowl with pot, and have a quick toke before he headed off. This guy’s not the joker on the right; with this guy, the joke’s on the rest of the world.