Month: August 2016

It’s not that we are camping virgins. It’s not even that we’ve never owned a camper. But it was long ago when we hit the road, bringing our bed and toilet with us—and at that time, it was a trailer, not our turtle-style truck camper that rests on the bed of our truck and extends over the hood.

Let me be clear right off, when I leave a task—requiring more than three sequential steps—for 24 hours or more, I need to be retrained. It’s just that way for me; though not for my wife, she retains things. However, she’s worn down from having three major surgeries and a biopsy in the space of six months, and still suffers from anesthesia brain—yes there’s such a thing. She has a good excuse for any missteps that have been suffered along the way to Green Bay.

Therefore, lapses could have been predicted. Like when we tooled on down the road with the back door flapping. I can only imagine how distracting it must have been for the driver in the vehicle behind us. Not to speak of stuff that flew out; you know, the things stashed in at the last minute. We were far too proud (embarrassed) to turn around and retrieve that shit. No, when something like that happens, it’s our inclination to save our dignity. So we quickly turned a corner, out of sight, and secured the door, and then took off, cutting o
ur losses. As we continued on, we debriefed, grasping to recover shreds of our self-respect by acknowledging (rationalizing) that the idiosyncrasy of our new-used camper door apparently requires it not just be closed, but locked…

And we didn’t lose life, just material objects.

All’s good.

Who knew that sleeping in the camper in a wind would have the effect of being at sea. The guy that sold us the camper didn’t say anything about that, nor did the instruction manual—I know because my wife reads directions. The unexpected advantage was, it feels like being rocked to sleep. Though, not everyone else in the camper felt that way. Not my wife, not my dogs.

Then there was the slide-out issue. Our camper is equipped with an extension to our living space called a slide-out, which we pull in when we’re ready to leave; otherwise, we’d exceed the width of the highway, not to speak of the fact that the weight of it would cause the vehicle to list to the passenger’s side when moving—more importantly, at any moment it could send us rolling into a ditch. (Pic shows slide-out.)

Now, the great thing about traveling along down the road in our camper is that in the case of having to pee—I won’t even go there regarding the stops we make for that activity, we have only to pull over and climb in the back. The good thing, the bathroom is conveniently located by the back door; the bad thing, it’s necessary to open the slide-out half way to be able to open the door to the bathroom enough to curl around and in, albeit still a tight squeeze that scrapes the flesh from our bones—and not in a good way.

We followed our stop-and-pee procedure, at first, but then a lack of vigilance set in—developing new habits is challenging for us.

A few miles down a country road—when I was at the wheel, eyes on the road avoiding potholes—my wife said, “I think we’re tilting.”

“Uh-huh,” I smile, thinking how in the last two years, our lives have felt on tilt. (Writer’s think in words like that.) “You are so right, honey,” I went on, “I’ve felt like our lives landed in a ditch, somewhere. It’s been so stressful. I keep wondering when the cloud over our heads will…”

“No, no!” she says irritated that I’d just made a metaphor out of what she sees as our present dilemma.

That’s when I noticed her frowning into her side view mirror. Our slide-out was still extended. Not only that, we’d been mowing down the road where the high weeds lined our path…gratefully, only snagging a few small branches.

I hit the brakes.

Now here’s the embarrassing part, we made that mistake, again and again. We can’t seem to remember to close the effing slide-out after relieving our bladders.

To compensate for our declining memories, my wife devised a sure-fired plan, a new protocol as it were: It had to do with yanking down the shade that covered the windowed back door when we came in to pee. Then, when we were about to exit the camper, we’d wonder why the shade was down, and this would be our cue to pull in the slide-out.

Foolproof!

How could we forget with a cue like that, right?

Apparently, one of us was annoyed with the shade down, and flipped it back when she left from doing her business—(I’m not mentioning who the last one out was.)

Not to continue our two-stooges style ineptness, my wife made a checklist…

I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.

(For more of our camping adventures, scroll down to previous post: “Second Day to Green Bay.”) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We’re off, clean camper, clean bodies—that’s as far as I can go with the concept of clean. I like how our dollhouse on wheels gets spruced up and organized. Believe me, only one person can be moving around in the allotted space; if two, someone is going die. So, the person who’s best at it—whose more naturally domestic, or at least, fussier as to how and where things are placed—does it. So my wife sends me on a walk with our two furry babies—poop pick-up bag in hand. Instructions: Don’t come back for an hour.

Warning: It’s cozy in a truck camper. (Check pic: I’m on bed, those are my legs as I lean against the back wall on our bed.) Wife, Elaine, is at kitchen sink, bathroom in back to right by door dimension of bathroom: approximately 2′ 6″ x 2′ 1o”) I wouldn’t recommend it to full-size humans. Especially to anyone who wears over a woman’s size 10 who has to pee. A bigger person, if she shoehorned her way between the walls and onto the toilet seat wouldn’t be able to reverse the process. It would take an emergency response team to get her out, probably by breaking down at least one wall to extract the humiliated pot sitter. For me, the good news about the shoebox-sized bathroom is that I can multitask by sitting on toilet, letting whatever happens happen, while showering at the same time. Sort of a full body bedet.

For those of you who, for political reasons and matters of taste, would never grace the door of Wal-Mart, cover your eyes for a moment. For our third stop of a three hour trip to Escanaba, we lingered at that establishment for probably two hours, given I had something we needed in just about every department—there are no other, to my knowledge, one-stop shopping stores in the U.P. No Target, No K-mart, No Costco, No nothing where I could repurchase everything we’d forgotten.

So one of us sits in truck with the dogs–the other hits the aisles—and we text back and forth, as needed. I’m lost in this store and there’s no one around to help me, but I preserve by devising a plan: go down every aisle, swiveling my head from side to side.

Not on our list, but I notice—in my swiveling—a must-have fly swatter. I try out the different models on some small airborne critters that were following me. I’m looking for just the right tool; it needs to have a good flexibility when I snap my wrist, as well as a pleasing color. I choose a yellow one.

As I wander around, I make a noteworthy connection: camping and Wal-Mart go hand-in-hand. In both environments there are peeps who walk around in their nightwear in the middle of the day, without shame. I’m thinking this might be an alternate lifestyle for me to consider—from camper to Wal-Mart and back. It’s got to cut down on my dyke attire budget.

My wife thinks I’m in this establishment far too long, so runs in to find me. She hands me the truck keys and sends me back to tend the dogs. Geez, and I only had three more items left on my list, and maybe a surprise purchase or two.

After the Wal-Mart adventure, we travel down the road but are soon hungry. My wife is not originally from Michigan, let alone the Upper Peninsula. So she’s never had the privilege of sampling one of those wrapped in dough, tasteless predecessors to the pot pie that are filled with carrots, potatoes and rutabagas, known as a pasties—who voluntarily eats rutabagas, anyway? But she sees the omnipresent signs along the road and is determined to have one, against my advice. We stop at a Mom and Pop cafe—which is pretty much all they have in this area—refreshing, in my opinion. I go inside with her, making sure she pronounces them correctly, so she doesn’t get laughed out of the place—a pasty is not something you put over your nipples. She’s looking up at the menu and says, “Look honey, they have a spicy Italian one,” knowing that’s my favorite ethnic fare. I’ve never heard of such a pasty, probably a nasty attempt at calzone. I don’t bite. I order a buffalo burger—better for my health than beef, I tell myself—dry but lots of catsup helps.

After her yooper (fyi: U.P. inhabitants) treat, we haul ass down the road paralleling Lake Michigan rubber burning the road. Shortly, we realize it’s our nap time,  so pull over, crawl in camper. Two hours later we’re back on track, arriving at our state park destination at 8:23 p.m. My wife, Elaine,  prepares our BBQ while Lucy Lou and Daisy Mae wait for food to fall their way–pic left.

Then off to bed after brushing our teeth with our newly purchased dental hygiene gear and hit the sack, a clean sack at that.

(For more of our camping experiences, scroll down to: “Green Bay or Bust.”

 

 

 

Looking at my pic, as I write this, I think I could use some leg extenders–not that I and the rest of the world haven’t notice before, but long shirt and shorts magnifies the problem. Not to let a fashion faux pas stop me, I’m off to learn what the cops know at the Writer Police Academy in Green Bay!

First day, a little rough getting off. To back up–or  backstory as we novelist call it–we should have had a trial run with camper, and would have, if three huge tree branches hadn’t fallen and landed on our roof, which vectored our lives in another direction for awhile.

So, being this is a new camper (used, but it great shape, so said the sale’s man. I say, at least it is pretty) we had to learn to load it on the truck–oh my–good thing my wife can read very detailed directions. Then, we had to figure out how to tie it down–no directions for that. Next, deal with a malfunctioning water system–wife googled problem and got it fixed. That’s my woman! All this, in two days. That gave us a bright and early take off at 5:08 p.m. on the day we’d planned on our early departure.

Then, of course, the stops along the way: first one, half way out of our driveway to make sure the lights were working on the rear of the camper; second stop, down the road to get beer–a must have; third stop, get cash–no, didn’t rob a bank, got it, legit, at ATM; fourth stop, it’s dinnertime, we’re hungry–where can we pull in with this behemoth; fifth stop, rest stop on the highway, we have to pee. Then off we go to cross the Bic Mac and stay at Straits State Park in St. Ignace to camp for the first night. Technically, our sixth stop on our two hour drive to our first campground, on our way to Green Bay.

Oh yeah, didn’t have time to clean or organized the camper, threw the stuff in like a thief in the night, and by now we’re sweaty, exhausted, snarly. Arrived at our spot to park, forgot the toothbrushes and paste, too tired to shower, threw a blanket on the piled high bed, so slipped between the stacks of whatever with our beers in hand, and fell asleep. Tomorrow, we can take care of our camper, wash stinky bodies, and scrape the fir off our teeth.

(To read more about my excitement to attend the “Writer’s Police Academy,” scroll down to: “My Characters an I meet at the the Shooting Range.”)

Shooting a gun, riding in a cop car at break-neck speeds, evaluating crime scene evidence, eating donuts, and much more will be my soup de jour at the writers’ police academy in Green Bay, Wisconsin! I’m stoked. Big time.

I’m on my way.

It’s an oxymoron of sorts: In my real life—if there’s such a thing, I’m a peace -loving, non-violent socialist who has attended more peace and justice rallies of all sorts than I can possibly count. And I’m a enthusiastic vegetarian want-to-be—who constantly fails—who rather than kill my meat, lets someone else do it for me and present it under glass at the meat market so I can guiltily purchase it, saying to myself that my wife has to have meat or she’ll get surly. On top of that, I eat it too—how many different meals can my wife make—all the while excusing myself as a backsliding vegetarian. In denial? Shit yes. I’m aware.

And, I excuse myself, also, for wanting to shoot a handgun.

When I was a kid, on every New Year’s Eve my dad let me shoot off his pheasant rifle in the air over Lake Huron–which was our front yard. He held me as I fired it because the first time I shot the rifle, at at the age of eight, the kickback put me on the ground, as well as making my shoulder black and blue—though that never dissuaded me from the next New Year’s Eve’s traditional shooting event.

But, I have never shot a pistol even though the characters in my novel have. I need the experience, I need to feel it; I rationalize.

Well hell, I repeat to myself, over and over, I’m a mystery writer. That gives me some latitude, right? I need to feel and experience what my characters feel and do, sometimes, anyway. I’m not responsible for what my characters say or do, but I need to know what they think and how they come to choosing their behaviors and heroic or miscreant paths.

Hello! I need to participate in their existence, at some level, understanding and experiencing how the good guys try to interrupt the activities of my bad guys, or visa versa.

I have already graduated from my hometown’s police academy, and now I’m privileged to attend an academy that trains not only local and state police departments but federal crime fighting agencies as well.

Wow!

Picture me jumping in the air and clicking my feet together. Or, given I’d fall and break my neck trying to do that, envision me with a big smile and thumping heart.

The end product of this adventure, I’m a more informed mystery writer…And one happy dude-ette!

(To read more about how a cloud can hang over a person and refuse to leave, scroll down to: “What’s Next?”)