by Doreen Orion
After a spate of gaming and all-you-can-eat buffets (which we referred to as barfatoriums), Tim and I were ready to hit the road again. On our way out of town, we dropped my mother off at the Greyhound terminal. After she assured Tim the bus ride home couldn’t possibly be as wonderful as the one down, we continued south.
With my mother sitting in the buddy seat next to me, Shula had been left to fend for herself and find her own spot while the bus was moving. She must not have appreciated it, because as soon as we dropped Gertrude off, Shula leapt up next to me, without my having to go get her. From that point on, whenever Tim started the ignition, that cat raced up front to take her rightful place before anyone else could steal it.
As always, we got varied responses from tollbooth operators along the way, from “What a beautiful cat!” (Shula) to “Are you towing a vehicle?” Tim had perfected his reply: “No, that guy’s been following me too close for the last hundred miles.” But on the Jersey Turnpike, we got a rather unique query: “Is this Tom Jones’s tour bus?” Pleased at being taken for a professional, Tim reluctantly informed the woman it was not and questioned her in turn. Apparently, Mr. Jones was performing in Atlantic City soon and she already had her tickets.
“Get his latest album, sista!” she exhorted me. “You’ll love it!” I did. And do.
At our next RV park, near Silver Spring, Maryland, we had our only parking mishap of the year. Normally, whenever we arrived at our site, if we had to back in (rather than pull through), Tim unhooked the Jeep, I drove it out of the way, then ran back to guide him into the spot (wearing secure shoes). Although Peter had finally installed the backup camera after our meltdown cruise, it wasn’t working, of course. Still, my hand signals had become more professional (well, at least less frenzied) and we had developed a system whereby we usually completed the maneuver flawlessly. But this time it was already dark and neither of us noticed a post sticking two feet up from the ground. Backing into the spot, we dented one of the baggage doors on the side of the bus.
It was easy for me to shrug off, but Tim felt terrible. I assumed this was simply a blow to his male ego; backing shit up is supposed to be manly stuff, after all. It took me a while to understand the full extent of his humiliation. Tim’s childhood was spent in old, run-down homes. Nothing was ever new and whenever something inevitably broke, his parents had to find the cheapest way to repair it, if it could be repaired at all.
The first time he took me to Reno, we passed a parking lot and he observed, “That’s where I grew up.” In a dilapidated house built in 1903 and never renovated, Tim lived on that spot until his family moved out when he was thirteen. When they left, they took their parlor furnaces, the only way to heat the place. A few years later, another even poorer family moved in and fashioned a makeshift fireplace to keep warm. That winter, the house burned to the ground and the family lost three of its children. Tim still remembers the shame he felt when, pointing the place out to a friend, the kid asked incredulously (and with a touch of pity in his voice), “Oh my God, you grew up there?”
We stayed in Maryland mainly so I could meet a host of e-mail and phone friends I’d had for years, through one of the insurance companies I worked for based there. It was an odd experience, finally putting faces to the voices I thought I knew so well, and it made me wonder how I came across to people myself. One of the longtime care managers, Flo, who always seemed to call to review a case during my morning workout, chided me regularly for my exertions.
“I ain’t got no time for exercise! My ten kids keep me too busy,” she’d laugh. When I got to her cubicle, I stopped dead in my tracks. I was expecting Jabba the Social Worker, but Flo was absolutely gorgeous—and svelte.
“How do you stay so thin having ten kids?” I blurted out. She laughed again.
“Oh, I’ve only got three. They just feel like ten.” Seeing Flo made me realize how other people who’ve never actually viewed me probably view me. To them, I must seem a typical shut-in, that is, someone dressed in fashion from the decade in which she last had contact with society. I simply could not abide that thought. Maybe I do need to get out more—or at least say I do.
When I met another of my e-mail/phone buddies, I immediately felt cheated: All those years without knowing I had a much younger friend with dreadlocks. Yet if I had seen her in a coffee shop in Boulder, I would have thought I had nothing in common with one still in her twenties and so hip.
This left me wondering how I became so narrow. As a physician, I was trained to gather information and make judgments about people, but now I wondered if perhaps that training hadn’t served me terribly well. (Do medical schools give refunds?) What else was I missing by being blinded by the belief that I had all the facts? How many other dreadlocked or punk or gothic (and I do love those pointy-toed, lace-up boots) young women, or old ones, all of whom populate Boulder in droves, had I never even considered getting to know?
Then we went out to dinner with Scott and his wife. He had quit the company a few years before but still kept in touch. I figured him for a latter-day hippie type. While we were working together, he called me “Dude,” until I unfortunately joked, “That’s Dr. Dudette, to you”—unfortunately because that’s what he started calling me. This time, I was not mistaken.
There were Dudes and Dudettes all around during dinner at the Baltimore harbor, and after our meal, the four of us strolled the waterfront. I’d lived in the city for a summer, nearly twenty-five years before, when I dated a true Baltimoron—but that’s another story. The harbor was just starting to be renovated at the time, and now I enjoyed seeing the finished product, particularly with a couple of locals. Tim, on the other hand, was fascinated by the row houses. We mused that if we lived there, on scrub day, when the neighborhood women scoured the white marble steps on their hands and knees, Tim, joining them, could get some good cleaning tips.
Finally, we went over to my cousin Jane’s (Doug’s sister’s) house in Chevy Chase. As Tim related stories of our journey (omitting all the mishaps—she is, after all, a government attorney specializing in safety issues), it was evident Jane could not comprehend how we seemed to be having so much fun. Hearing about it all, I realized with a start that we were, indeed.
We traveled south through Virginia, staying at a campground that, in our RV guidebook, boasted a lake and a view. I really should have known by now not to trust those park descriptions or even their names, for that matter, for the industry seemed rife with false advertising: The idyllic-sounding Whispering Pines RV Park had been more like Deafening Rail Yard. Then there was Vista View RV Resort—the view was of the town dump, and as for the resort part, let’s just say the amenities included a mossy swimming hole and a Tuff Shed with an air hockey table.
So at this particular place in Staunton, Virginia, the “lake” we got to “view” was a duck pond, at best, with pretty mangy-looking birds, to boot—certainly unworthy of any l’orange sauce. At least the campground was close to Shenandoah National Park, where the 105-mile Skyline Drive provided spectacular scenic overlooks and walking trails. Tim even got me out of the Jeep for a stroll or two. We spied a marker for the Appalachian Trail (a capital “A” with a vertical line perpendicular to the horizontal one of the letter, to make it look like an arrow) and marveled at how far hikers had to go from here to where we had seen the end near Moosehead Lake in Maine.
Once out of the park, we kept passing signs for the “Natural Bridge,” so decided to investigate. It’s actually a geological formation (yeah, Tim loved it), a creek which carved out a gorge through a mountain of limestone, forming a 215-foot-high arch. Its span is so wide that Highway 11 passes right over it. Because it was known in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the Modern World, it, along with Niagara Falls, drew hordes of visitors from as far away as Europe. Just for thrills, the braver amongst them were lowered over the edge in a hexagonal steel cage while a violinist played.
Look, those people didn’t have TV back th
en.
We did find it compelling enough, though, to crane our necks and use binoculars to see where, in 1750, a young George Washington was said to have carved his initials partway up the arch when he was surveying the site for Lord Fairfax. (Quite the environmentalist, the father of our country. He takes an axe to a cherry tree and tags a previously pristine ancient rock formation. Nice going, George!)
Near Charlottesville, Virginia, Monticello became for Tim a highlight of our trip, granting him a presidential pardon, if not ultimate victory, in our years of Thermostat Wars. For it was there, on the tour of the third president’s grand abode, we learned of Jefferson’s “fire point,” i.e., the temperature at which he was willing to light a fire: 55 degrees. As I scowled, my normally reserved husband high-fived the startled tour guide and exclaimed, “Jefferson’s my man!”
Monticello showcases many of the prolific inventor’s creations. Our favorite had to be the Great Clock in the grand entrance hall, which spanned the length of the room, powered by sets of cannonball-like weights descending on either side of the door, where vertically, from top to bottom, the days of the week are listed. Jefferson ran out of space, so he had a hole built in the floor; thus, Saturday is in the basement. The Founding Father equivalent of schmear.
Leaving Virginia, we got a lesson in being neighborly when we parked overnight at a Wal-Mart near Richmond. A sixtyish woman walking her Labrador mix stopped by the bus. She was “camping” too, in her van, she said.
“So do you all stay at Wal-Marts all the time?” When we demurred, she reassured us, “Well, don’t worry. Everyone stays here.” She was right. By the time we got to bed, six more large rigs were parked nearby in our own prefab and fully fabulous neighborhood. The next morning, as we returned from some shopping, we could hear the rumble of our generator all the way across the parking lot.
“I can see why campgrounds don’t allow people to run those things,” I said, then wondered aloud why we couldn’t hear anyone else’s, as the morning had quite a chill. Tim explained they could all use their rigs’ batteries for heat and added pointedly, “They don’t have their Internet satellite, surround sound stereo, dishwasher, and washing machine running.”
“Oh,” I replied. “I guess they’re roughing it.”
He shook his head.
“Don’t you find it funny we’re living in a luxury home at the Wal-Mart?”
I thought about it for a bit, then had to admit, “No, not really.” I suppose once I got used to the idea of living on a bus, then actually lived on a bus, nothing else in my world could appear terribly askew. Just the night before, we had seen a Wal-Mart employee returning carts to the store, dressed as an Elvis impersonator. Even his reflective vest didn’t seem all that out of place.
As we left the state, I consulted Rand and wondered why Virginia is Virginia and not East Virginia. We had, after all, gone through West Virginia to get to Virginia and were now headed to its southern neighbors North and South Carolina. And we’d already been to North and South Dakota, so it seemed confusing that Virginia is just Virginia. Tim sighed while I prattled on about this (apparently only to me) fascinating paradox. I guess now he knows how I feel when he ruminates about things mechanical.
In Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, we discovered even more about being good neighbors from a little-known story of the brave souls instrumental in helping the Wright brothers take flight. That part of the coast has seen so many shipwrecks—over six hundred since the sixteenth century—it’s known as the “Graveyard of the Atlantic.” The reasons for the shipwrecks have something to do with the collision of opposing currents and the propensity for hurricanes, as well as navigational challenges, but since I’m not Tim, it was enough for me to understand it’s a treacherous spot for mariners. Rescuers trying to save sailors’ lives as well as salvage ships have a long tradition here. After Wilbur and Orville set up shop in Kill Devil Hills, whenever they needed manpower to help launch, they’d hang a red scarf and those good neighbors (as if they didn’t have enough to do already) would come on over to help.
Although it’s not like I was hanging out waiting to save lives or anything, I had always been unwilling to help Project Nerd with his home improvement schemes, no matter how much he said he needed me. Of course, he always managed to rope me in anyway—sometimes quite literally. I really don’t think I can be blamed for my lack of support, considering that his propositions ranged from the merely ill-advised to the decidedly deranged, if not potentially deadly—for us both.
There was the time a big boulder fell near our driveway. Note I said “near.” It was actually just beyond a portion of the road we used. In other words, that boulder could have stayed where it was for millennia and we would not have been inconvenienced in any way. A normal husband would use the phone to have it removed. Project Nerd (why, oh, why can’t I be like a typical superhero’s wife—blissfully ignorant of my husband’s true identity?), in an effort to “save the association some money,” dug a pit just off the road, then used a come-along attached to his truck, which was in turn attached to a strap around the boulder. This, he assured me, would “scoot” said boulder into the pit. Unfortunately, since I had always absolutely refused to drive his monstrosity of a truck (some large black thing from the 1970s which Tim insisted on referring to as a “classic,” and which, the one time I did drive it, was so wide, I couldn’t tell where I was in the road and bent one of his precious wheels on a highway divider), he did, while I “steered” the boulder with a lever. I learned very quickly that boulders don’t “scoot.” Perhaps even more importantly, they don’t “steer” very well, either.
He once made me help him move a two-hundred-pound TV. After all, why do it when there happened to be several burly construction guys at our house who could easily have pitched in to lift the thing? Oh, no. Much better to wait until he’s alone with his pip-squeak wife. So, using a piano dolly (PN keeps several in his super-secret lair, which mere mortals refer to as a “garage”), he employed stacked scraps of lumber (he’s got a lot of that squirreled away, too) to fashion “steps” upon which we (and I dearly wish I could put “we” in quotes here) walked the TV down to the dolly, wheeled it to its new spot, then reversed the process. After that incident, I strongly suspected the “nerd” part of his alter ego enjoyed the challenge of figuring out how to get these crazy things done even more than the “project” part liked doing them. But, even so. Why should I suffer?
Unfortunately for him, the time I finally decided I’d had enough almost proved his kryptonitian undoing.
PN was cleaning the gutters on our house two stories up when his ladder slipped. Not wearing his cape that day (I guess he didn’t have enough laundry for a red load), he couldn’t simply fly away to safety and was left dangling, hanging on to the gutter with one hand, one foot perched precariously on a lone rung. He used his other hand to bang on the window. I ignored him. After all, I was used to tuning out all the noise around the house whenever Tim’s alter ego was about, and this time was no exception. Until the incessant screaming began.
“I’M FALLING,” and the like. Obviously, this was not at all accurate, as one glance out the window proved him to be nearly stationary. “I’m going to fall” would have been more precise. Grammar Nerd, he’s not.
As I ran to his aid, I couldn’t help wondering why my resourceful husband didn’t figure out how not to fall all by himself. I was certain, using the knowledge he’d gleaned from his precious Physics for Majors class, that some equation about mass, gravity, and density (of his brain, perhaps) would come to him eventually. After all, my glance out the window already confirmed he had just figured out a way to stop time. Is it really any wonder I never wanted to be a sidekick? For even more justification, I need only recall Toto, Robin, and Kato. Their outfits are so pathetic.
After I steadied the ladder, I treated Tim to my usual lament when he got himself into project-inspired fixes and needed me to bail him out.
“Why can’t you just call some guy
friend?” It took me a long time to understand why he couldn’t. His close male friends, men he’d known since college and residency, lived over a thousand miles away. Calling some neighbor we barely knew, or even a colleague at the hospital, would only reinforce that due to the demands of his work life, he hadn’t made close connections with men locally. It was something he missed but always put on the back burner, thinking there would be time later. It seemed later arrived while we were on the road. For even though the connections were brief, he socialized a lot more, especially in the RV parks where making the rounds with the dog might include stopping to admire someone else’s rig. As a result, if the bus needed some tinkering, he gladly accepted the help of a campground neighbor who wandered by. This made him realize even more how much he’d missed the whole male camaraderie thing, and he swore he’d do better when we got home.
Of course, after getting help with some home improvement project, Tim figured he’d be inviting the guy out for a beer. On Cape Hatteras, he wouldn’t have to, as there was always the Brew Thru—a drive-through beer place. This is no drive-up, fast-food window, but a store you actually drive through the middle of. A clerk then takes your order, then runs around and pulls out bottles while you sit in your car, marveling at the convenience of it all. Finally, an acceptable way to combine two of my husband’s favorite pastimes: driving and beer. If only there’d been a heavy machinery shop out back, he could’ve had a trifecta.