by Doreen Orion
We traveled to the interior of the state, where we stayed at one of the most unusual campgrounds we’ve ever been in (and one that, for once, lived up to its name): Rolling View State Recreation Area, about a half hour east of Durham. While a lovely setting on a lake might be expected in a state park, what was different here was that such a bucolic atmosphere could be found smack-dab in the middle of an urban area. The only issue we had with the place is that the gates close at 6 p.m., so campers returning in their tow vehicles have to park outside, then walk about a mile to their rigs in absolute pitch darkness. We learned to bring a flashlight.
Just west of Durham, in Hillsborough, North Carolina, we stumbled across the Burwell School Historic Site. There, in 1837, in a nondescript, white clapboard house, Anna Burwell, wife of the local pastor, opened one of the earliest female academies. This trailblazing woman (who undoubtedly never had the notion to just sit around in her pajamas and, if she did, would not have found doing so appealing in the least) came up with a full curriculum of literature, history, and language all on her own, educating two hundred students over two decades. She was even an early proponent of physical exercise, making her young charges dance indoors when the weather was too inclement to go outside. At one time, the Burwells’ modest four-room abode was home to more than sixty people, arguably the most extraordinary of whom was a young slave, Elizabeth Hobbes Keckly.
Even after enduring harsh beatings at the hands of the pastor, Keckly was not beaten down. She eventually bought her own freedom and traveled north, where, as an accomplished seamstress, she made dresses for wives of prominent politicians, including Mary Todd Lincoln, who would later refer to Keckly as “my best friend.” Perhaps Keckly’s greatest achievement was not even made on her own behalf; dismayed by the press’s treatment of her beloved Mrs. Lincoln, she wrote an eloquent book about their relationship, intending nothing more than to defend the First Lady to the public. That book, however, in which she details her life as a slave, has become an important historical document, valued by many for so much more than she originally intended.
As we poked around in the backyard, we saw a small, extremely sturdy building that seemed to have weathered the years better than any other on the property. Now we understand what is so impressive about a “brick shit house.”
Keckly’s story couldn’t help but drive home how insignificant our trials and tribulations on the bus had been, even as we still struggled to fix Peter’s many mistakes. Up to this point, we had gone nearly four months without a reliable TV signal, an unimaginable hardship at the start of our trip. Now we no longer cared. Still, it became somewhat of a badge of honor to systematically purge our home sweet bus home of all things Peter. So, after having some parts shipped our way, Tim climbed up on the roof. (Let it be noted I wanted to end that sentence right there, but Tim insisted I add the words “with the azimuth motor.”) He actually would have finished that particular project quickly if he had not also taken the opportunity to grasp the three-foot plastic dome covering the satellite dish, thrust it in the air over his head, and, silhouetted by the sun, proclaim, “LET THERE BE TELEVISION!”
People in the park were undoubtedly confused as to whether they were seeing some sort of Bus God or just a superhero with too much time on his hands.
Once he came back to earth, we stared at the screen openmouthed and, as mindless commercials played, realized how much television is like crack. I could feel my IQ drop a few points, but was powerless to tear myself away.
“Look!” Tim marveled. “They got movin’ images and everythin’!” I tried to rise, but was rooted to the reclining love seat. I cursed its plush leather pillows, specifically designed to maximize viewing pleasure. Then I realized I was still holding the remote. If I can just get my index finger to move.
“Must…stop…picture…machine…” I somehow managed to press the “off” button. The spell broken, we turned toward each other.
“That was one bad relapse, man,” I lamented. Tim agreed. In a direct contradiction to everything our training had taught us about addiction, we vowed to severely ration TV and found it’s not so difficult when there is so much around us to actually experience and when viewing becomes a choice, not the avenue of least resistance after a long, hard day at work.
As if to help our resolve, the motor on the TV lowering device soon burned out due to Peter’s poor design. About a week after we had it replaced, I noticed a wisp of smoke coming from the ceiling. Tim stood directly under it.
“Did you light a match?” I asked. It wasn’t as stupid a question of a nonsmoker as one would think, for only a few days before, seeing a tick on Miles, Tim had done just that. Now, though, he just said no and resumed his tinkering with the dashboard. The wisp grew less wispy and more fanned out. I must have had the same perplexed expression on my face as the first caveman who had ever achieved…
“FIRE!” I screamed. OK, so I’ve been known to exaggerate. I guess that’s why Tim shot me an incredulous look. But when he followed my gaze upward, he saw it, too. He sprang into action, pushing the button that should lower the TV. Nothing happened. As the smoke grew, I started opening windows.
“Where’s the fire extinguisher?” I coughed. Although I had never seen it, I rightly assumed Project Nerd’s alter, alter ego, Mr. Safety, had installed one. (In fact, as I should have known and later discovered, he actually had installed two, one at either end of the bus.) Tim ran to the kitchen, grabbed it from a cabinet, and pulled the safety ring as he leapt over the coffee table. He let ’er rip…right in his face. Perhaps without his usual superhero accoutrement of safety goggles, he couldn’t see where he was aiming the thing. He quickly righted it, just as a flame lapped out overhead.
It was over in a few seconds. (The cleanup took hours.) Then Tim manually lowered the TV, a laborious process involving a flexible extension on his electric drill which, he painstakingly and in excruciating detail explained, made it work like a Dremel tool. (I suppose I should say here what a Dremel tool is, but I don’t know because I was really not in the mood.) Miraculously, there was no damage, just the burned wire. I didn’t even care about that. All I could think was how fortunate we were this happened while we were home. Strangely, I didn’t even contemplate the potential damage to the bus. Everything is replaceable, I realized. Except, if we’d been out, Miles, Morty, and Shula would have been toast.
What is happening to me? “Everything is replaceable” was hardly a thought becoming a Princess, but it was my only thought. While I adore my pets, after a lifetime of rampant and, yes, even resplendent consumerism, I would have expected to have given some of my belongings, certainly at least my shoes, a second thought. But I really didn’t care.
Everything is replaceable.
Well, at least I haven’t gone so completely insane as to think this occasion doesn’t call for a commemorative martini. And a lovely shade of orangey-red it was. I called this newest nectar Fire in the Hole. It was a toss-up between naming it that or Dumb Luck, which I realized was what we, two Yuppies with no experience with busing, epitomized. We were so dumb, in fact, we didn’t even know what we didn’t know. In one searing flash, the fire brought home how much we needed to learn on this trip.
Chapter Seven
LORDY, MIZ SCARLETT! I DON’T KNOW NOTHIN’ ’BOUT DRIVIN’ NO BUSES!
* * *
Pelican Pucker
1 part rum
2 parts Midori
splash pineapple juice
splat sweet ’n’ sour
squirt lime
Sugar rim to lower pucker factor. Mix ingredients in shaker. Let ’er rip.
* * *
Throughout the fall as we traveled deeper into the South, I reminded Tim of his pledge to me at the very start of our journey, exacted in a feeble attempt to salvage something from the bus thing: we would not see snow the entire trip. Sensing that after all we’d been through, even a temperature drop on a sunny day might sever my already tenuous commitment to the rest of the year
, Tim not only did his best to live up to his promise, but even suggested a two-week sojourn on the South Carolina coast. (We skipped Kentucky because winter was setting in. The only other continental state we didn’t hit all year was Rhode Island. We just kinda missed it.)
Once settled in Myrtle Beach in an RV park right on the ocean, we took daily strolls on the shore, amidst a frenzy of activity. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was trolling for fish: seagulls dive-bombing the water with a splash; sandpipers, like cockroaches on stilts, scurrying out of the way of crashing waves; porpoises, as if members of a synchronized swim team, going for the grouper instead of the gold; pelicans gliding over the water, bodies still until they spied their prey or took a few beats of their wings.
The pelicans were my favorite, and as I scanned the water for them, I reluctantly had to acknowledge that I’d developed a fondness for something in the “great” outdoors. They just looked so unlikely to get airborne and, once flying, even more unlikely to stay that way. I positively squealed with delight when they landed, feet thrust forward, neck pulled back, wings raised and flapping wildly, as if anticipating some horrible crash. It doesn’t take a Freud to figure out that I identified with the poor birds; as a bus phobic, I could easily (and quite gratefully) disembark anytime. What could a bird that’s afraid of landing do?
It was especially strange that I enjoyed watching the pelicans, as I’d never been particularly fond of birds. In fact, there was at least one time when I was positively terrified of them.
During some house construction which included replacing our roof, there was a period of time in which the gables were open. This was apparently taken as an open invitation to a couple of unwanted guests. I discovered them one Saturday when I walked into the living room: two huge, angry, menacing, avian creatures (which Tim later identified as “sparrows”) flying about, of the house. I seriously considered flinging myself against the windows, too. I really don’t know why they upset me so. Maybe it was because I feared my world was turning upside down: This was a clear violation of the uneasy truce I’d maintained with the out-of-doors my entire life. If Mother Nature now saw fit to nullify our agreement by violating my personal space, what other horrors might she wreak on me? Gardening?
My first impulse was to scream. I have always believed in following one’s gut and this was certainly no time to be changing philosophies. I indulged my instincts with gusto and for quite a prolonged period of time. Tim was working in the hospital and there was no one else within earshot—even with my pipes. If a Princess screams in her castle and no one is around to hear her, did she really scream at all? Uncertain of the answer to that one, I called my husband. He happened to be in a small assessment room, doing an initial evaluation on an adolescent, and answered his phone.
“Hi. I’m just finishing up with a patient. Can I call you right—?”
“THERE ARE BIRDS IN THE HOUSE!” My screams reverberated through the receiver and into their tiny space. I didn’t think I could get any more upset—or any louder—until Miles, Morty, and Shula (who had to pick this moment in her life to become brave) ambled in to see what all the ruckus was about. Needless to say, they hardly shared my aversion to the creatures. The thought of watching the birds ripped to shreds before my eyes made me feel faint—unfortunately, I didn’t.
“NO! NO! GET AWAY!” I screamed at the pets. As I ran around trying to shoo them into the bedroom while keeping my distance from the birds, I became hysterical. OK, even more hysterical. Now I was screaming and crying. Tim tried his best to calm me.
“Sweetie. Sweetie. SWEETIE.” It wasn’t helping. Finally, he said in exasperation, “Sweetie, the young man I’m interviewing wants to know how come he’s the one in the psychiatric hospital.” That did it. Once I started laughing through my tears, I was able to corral the pets into the bedroom. After several pleading calls to a rather astonished Animal Control (“You said you need us to get a couple of birds out of your house? Not bears. Not bats. Birds?”), I joined Miles, Morty, and Shula, locked myself in the bedroom, and awaited the intruders’ subsequent removal.
So, on Myrtle Beach, as I marveled at the pelicans, Tim marveled at my marveling. Then we both marveled at the people; they fished from shore, or in tiny boats just offshore, or in larger boats farther out. Some even fished way up on the beach, but not for food: Men (always, men) with metal detectors combed the sand for coins. How those things work, exactly, is slightly beyond the scope of this memoir and well beyond the interest of its author, but I’m certainly not the first to observe that these devices inherently attract metal and repel women.
Since watching the pelicans required walking on the beach, I did so, willingly, only reinforcing my long-standing objection to hiking (at least before discovering how much I could distract myself with a camera): Beach, flat. Hiking, uphill. I’d always believed the government should install escalators in the mountains of national parks, making them not only accessible to the handicapped, but also to lazy sloths like me. The environmentalist objection could easily be quelled by having the moving stairs be solar powered. And by thus widening the parks’ appeal, more funding would surely follow, further placating any nature-loving sensibilities. I think I’ll write my congressman.
In truth, on those rare occasions I hiked in a forest (usually once a year, just to remind Tim why he didn’t want me to go more often), I was always bored by the sameness of it all. Yes, a forest is pretty. But at walking speed, the scenery just doesn’t change that much minute to minute. Worse, when the aim of the trek is to get to the top of some peak, or the edge of some lake, why all those hours of mind-numbing exertion for a few minutes’ view? I’d be much happier (as would my companions, I’m sure) if someone would just send me a postcard. But by the ocean, where walking was largely flat, the fresh air really was different from the air inside (unless you work in a Morton’s factory, but that’s another issue). And the scenery—the movement of the waves—was ever changing, the underlying sea life incapable of doing you harm unless you’re foolhardy enough to venture in. No need to wear bells, slap on DEET, or carry rocks. (To scare a mountain lion, you’re supposed to throw a rock, right? But you’re not supposed to look small—or, in other words, bend down to pick up a rock. Explain that, outdoors nuts.)
I always assumed I got my nature-loving ways from my father. When Henry first saw the Grand Canyon, he was heard to remark, “Eh. It’s just a big loch [a hole].” You got it, Dad.
Myrtle Beach also astounded us by the plethora of swimsuit shops on almost every block. How many people, after all, decide to vacation in a beach community but forget to bring their swimsuits? Evidently, nearly everyone. And, as Tim observed, judging from the number of topless bars, apparently a lot of them are men who forget to bring their wives, as well.
Then there’s another plethora—of pancake houses (which really didn’t seem to jibe with the swimsuit shops at all). Within a two-mile stretch, we passed: Pancake House; Plantation House of; Pan American Pancake and Omelets; IHOP; International Omelets and Pancake House; Denny’s, House of; Farmhouse; Grandma’s Kitchen; Country Kitchen; and Mammy’s Kitchen.
The names of the swimsuit shops were not much better. In the same two-mile stretch, we passed: One Whales (clearly owned by someone with no business sense); Five Star Discount Beachwears; an Empire USA; two Wings (a silly name for a decidedly gravity-bound activity); an Eagles Outlet; two Atlantis Beachwears; four Pacific Beachwears and two Pacific Superstores (someone with my sense of direction must have named those); two Bargain Beachwears; a plain old Beachwear; and Tim’s (and, I’m sure, every man’s) favorite, the Tantalizing Twins.
We had only planned to stay a week in Myrtle Beach but extended it to two, taking our long daily (or more) walks by the shore, holding hands and alternating with each other for who got to take the poodle’s leash. In between strolls, we set up beach chairs on the sand and settled in with books. Although always a voracious reader myself (when I found the time), I’d never actually seen Tim sit and read b
efore (unless it was an instruction manual and then only on the sly). In fact, I’d never seen him just…sit. But, looking up from my novel, there was no mistaking it. He was simply staring out at the waves.
“Whatcha thinkin’?” I finally asked.
“Nothin’,” he said. There could not have been a more perfect response.
It had been weeks since nearly being burned to a crisp and I was feeling more and more comfortable on the bus. This terrified me. It’s one thing to gain an intellectual understanding that the trappings of one’s former life were just that. It’s quite another to actually feel that way. For a time, to compensate, I made it a point to cling even tighter to relics of my prior life, taking the concept of “everything is replaceable” to new heights by acquiring more to replace. I therefore reasoned that an afternoon at Tommy Bahama’s would surely make me feel an even greater connection to all things beach.
Meandering through the fabulous Myrtle Beach outlet mall, I found myself truly taken up into the spirit of the surf, buying mounds of beachwear, not only at Tommy’s, but at various other stores. Back at the bus, I engaged in a futile effort to cram the purchases into my measly allotment of closet space. Tim had already left with Miles (after an afternoon at a mall, he was itching to get outside) and waited for me by the shore. I sat back on the floor in frustration, bags scattered about. I’d rather be out on the beach, too. Then a nagging thought. And no matter how hard I tried to push it aside, there it was. I don’t need beach clothes to feel…well, beachy. I got Tim to drive me back the very next day (I was taking this Leave the Driving to Him thing quite literally, even if it only involved the Jeep) to return every last purchase.
It was around this time that a new alter ego of Tim’s was born. It shouldn’t be surprising that my husband is a gentleman. Even after all these years, he scrambles to open doors for me. He always walks on the outside, near the street. He always drives when we’re together (well, OK, maybe that’s just Mr. Safety’s bid for self-preservation), but he also won’t let me carry anything. So now, on Myrtle Beach, he of course insisted on bringing both beach chairs to the sand. He also toted any water or snacks we might want on our long walks. Whenever I tried to bring something along (even my camera) he’d take it from me until I needed it. So, one day, I found some pretty seashells in the sand and decided to collect a few. I had no pockets. Tim did.