RV There Yet?

by Diann Hunt

  Clicking off my phone, I stand just before the RV door and linger beneath a star-studded sky. A day filled with friends and truffles. It doesn’t get any better than that.

  I step inside to find balloons and crepe paper hanging from every nook and cranny of the ceiling. In big red letters, “Happy Birthday, DeDe” sprawls across our kitchen cabinets.

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry, Millie. This is quite a mess,” I say, though I can’t hide the fact that it thrills me that my friends went to all this trouble.

  “What are you sorry about? It was Millie’s idea,” Lydia says with a laugh.

  “It was?” I’m truly shocked. Reaching over, I give both of the girls a hug.

  “Just so you know, though, everyone had a part in it, so who knows what you’ll find,” Millie warns.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” I say, feeling a little nervous.

  Millie shrugs.

  “Shall we take everything down?” I ask.

  “Leave it up ’til tomorrow,” Millie says, surprising me.

  We each get ready to turn in, and after no major disaster befalls us, I pull off the covers to slip between the sheets but pause to whisper a “thank you” heavenward. Afterward, I climb into the bed, and it suddenly occurs to me that my feet are stuck midway.

  Somebody has short-sheeted my bed.

  23

  Millie’s horn-blowing rouses me from sleep the next morning, and I’m ready to tell her to put a cork in it. I mean, she’s experimenting with her notes this morning, and that’s just wrong. Something else is bothering me, though. I’m hot. Really hot. From the neck up.

  I rush out of bed and go to the bathroom. My face is red. Think match head. I’m sweating. I rip off my top and throw cold water on my face as fast as I can. Fifty years and one day old, and I’m experiencing my first hot flash.

  Before I can work up a good hormonal fit, I hear a big commotion in the living room. Millie is near hysterics. Quickly shrugging my top back on, I step out of the bathroom. “What is it, Millie?”

  Lydia joins us, and we both stare at Millie, who, by the way, has all the color of a white gourd.

  “Three elk came out of the woods and were coming straight at me,” she answers between short breaths. Carefully she peeks out the window blinds. “They’re still milling around out there.”

  “Do you think they meant you harm?” Lydia asks, hand touching her throat.

  “Well, they didn’t come to talk about life in the Rockies, I can tell you that.” She peeks out again.

  “How curious. Usually animals stay away from noise out of fear. What were you doing when they came into view? Did you have food out there?” Lydia asks.

  “No, I was play—wait!” Millie says, snapping her fingers.

  “What is it?” Lydia wants to know.

  “I was playing my horn. You know what that means?” Her eyes are wide.

  “The noise was getting on their nerves too?” Millie glares at me, and I shrug.

  “What?” Lydia asks.

  “I’ll bet they thought I was a male.”

  “Really? Your horn doesn’t sound like that,” Lydia says.

  “Sound like what?” I’m totally clueless here.

  “Well, I don’t know how else to explain it. Stranger things have happened.” Millie glances out the window again.

  “Stranger things than what?” Everyone is ignoring me.

  “Oh my goodness, that’s hilarious,” Lydia says, laughing.

  Millie’s laughing with her, and I’m still clueless. I mean, Millie’s not model material, mind you, but she hardly passes for a bull.

  Millie glances at me. “If you’d visit your local library once in a while, Dee, you might learn something.” Her chipmunk laugh is back, and I’m worried about Chip and Dale’s extended family showing up.

  They continue laughing, and I’m feeling a little out of the loop. Opening the bread wrapper, I plunk a slice into the toaster. Irritated, I turn to them. “Okay, fill me in.”

  “The female elk are drawn to males by their bugle, or mating call.” Lydia’s words are splattered with giggles.

  Now my jaw drops, and I look at Millie. “You’re bugling the elk mating call?” Did I not say her playing is weird?

  “Well, not on purpose. But God’s creatures know good music when they hear it,” Millie says.

  “You sound like a bull, Millie. You have an elk following, and you’re okay with this?” I ask.

  Millie lifts a smug face.

  “Okay, I can see the advantage of that.” I form a phone receiver with my hand and bring it to my ear. “Hello? Carnegie Hall? My name is Millie Carter, and I thought you’d like to know that I can mimic the bull elk’s mating call on my trumpet.’ ‘Why, Ms. Carter, how fabulous! When can we schedule you for an event?’” Lydia and I bust up with laughter.

  “Oh, why do I bother,” Millie says, brushing me away with her hand. Briefly she peeks out the window once again. “They’re gone.” She turns and breathes a sigh of relief. “They were big.”

  “You’d better get out of that brown,” I say, pointing to her blouse. “It makes you look, well, sort of elkish.” I laugh. “And just for the record, if you start growing antlers, I’m outta here.”

  Millie makes a face. I giggle.

  Just in case the elk are still hoping to get a glimpse of Millie, I decide to skip my Pilates routine this morning. Instead, I head for the shower. “Only you, Millie. Only you.”

  “What, can I help it if I have the magic touch?”

  This woman is definitely in denial.

  Later in the morning we gather on the wooden pews in the white clapboard chapel, and the Aspen Creek Community Church ladies lead our little gathering in a worship service. Though some of the men have helped us, the women have been unable to help us up to now, and this is their way of getting acquainted before they “rub elbows” (their words) with us next week.

  These older women could charm the antlers off a bull. Think Proverbs 31 woman times five. There ought to be a law against it, but there you are.

  They lead us through choruses in the dog-eared pages of faded music books sitting in the pews, give a few announcements about the area, and take an offering. To my surprise, when it’s time for the morning message, Steve Knight steps up to the front.

  He talks about, of all things, starting over. Brings up that same verse in 2 Corinthians and shares with us how God makes everything new in our lives when we turn everything over to Him. Our circumstances may not change, but God helps us to see things through different eyes. The things we used to care about don’t matter as much, and things we didn’t care about before suddenly become important.

  “A personal relationship with a living God makes all the difference,” he says. And I believe with my whole heart that he means it.

  Steve looks so alive, content, happy. I had that kind of relationship with God when I was younger. I’ve been praying, but I can’t deny something still gets in the way. I think it’s guilt.

  The message is soon over, and we go our separate ways to eat lunch so Lydia can have Sunday off.

  “Hey, how about we all go into Estes Park to eat lunch?” Eric says, walking up behind us.

  Lydia looks as though she’s about to say no, but Eric cuts her off.

  “Come on, Lydia, just as friends.”

  “My motor home is all hooked up; I don’t want to drive anywhere,” she says.

  “ ’Course not. We’ll take you women on our bikes.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up and quiver beneath her bangs.

  “Come on, Lydia, this might be fun,” Millie says, sounding every inch the biker woman. “Besides, after we shopped for DeDe’s birthday, you said you wanted to go back into Estes Park and look around. And I need to get some film developed.”

  My shock must register, because Millie looks at me.

  “What? I have my moments,” she says.

  “Obviously,” I say.

  “Now you’re talking, Milliped
e,” Eric says, nudging Millie’s arm.

  “You want to go with us, DeDe?” Millie asks me.

  “Wait, I haven’t said I would go,” Lydia says. This is all happening far too fast for her. Millie pins her with a stare. “Oh, all right,” Lydia says, then they both turn to me.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I need some think time this afternoon. Do you two mind?”

  Lydia and Millie shake their heads.

  “Still, I don’t know about this,” Lydia says, nibbling her fingernail.

  Eric leans toward her. “Remember, they have a Starbucks.”

  Everyone knows Lydia’s penchant for Starbucks. She weakens. Eric moves in for the kill.

  “I’ve got a helmet in my storage bin, and you can wear that. I promise to drive as safely as I would if my grandma were on the back.” He winks.

  Lydia stiffens a moment. “I’m hardly your grandmother.”

  “Trust me, I can see that,” Eric says with a grin.

  She gives him a “don’t go there” look, then dares a glance at Millie, whose eyes are pleading with her to go. She finally says, “Okay.”

  “Great. We’ll be by here in a few minutes.” Eric and the Biker Boys race off before she can change her mind. Beverly runs up to tell me the fax came through from Shelley, so I go over to the office to sign the offer and fax it back to her.

  Afterward, Millie, Lydia, and I go inside the motor home to freshen up and get some money. Lydia wants to rethink the whole thing, but Millie isn’t about to let her. I think this fresh mountain air is doing something to Millie’s brain. As in causing dead cells to spring to life. It definitely agrees with her.

  It is a sight to behold to see a black-helmeted Lydia flanked on the back of Eric’s bike, in a setting of silver and black, holding Eric in a death grip—which I suspect is what he hoped for all along. Donned in a red helmet, Millie is on the back of Elmer Fudd’s cycle, looking for all she’s worth as though she hasn’t had this much fun in a month of Sundays—which I suspect is true. The burly cyclist says something to her, and with one jolt, they’re outta here.

  Eric trails behind at a pace that would get him kicked out of any self-respecting motorcycle group.

  A slight breeze wafts through the window screens and gives our home on wheels a fresh mountain scent. The broken air conditioner hasn’t bothered me, though I’ve had to rethink that after experiencing my first hot flash. By the way, I haven’t told the girls yet, nor do I plan to at this point. Maybe I can sneak into town with Steve and look for a small fan. Slipping on the shoes I bought for walking trails in the mountains, I’m ready to go. My walking stick is perched in a corner of the bedroom, so I grab it and head out the door.

  Since Rocky Mountain National Park is within walking distance, I head that way, glancing once more at the brochure that lists the trails. There is a trail marked “easy to moderate” fairly close to our campsite, and I decide to take it. The altitude hasn’t bothered me. I’ve been drinking lots of water, which is one thing they tell you to do when you’re in high altitudes. Once I spot the trail, I head in that direction.

  The afternoon sun attempts to poke through occasional gaps in the pine branches that canopy overhead, but the pines stand firm in their grasp to keep the path below dark and otherworldly. The trail looks beaten and worn by the many trailblazers who have gone before me; an earthy path littered with pinecones, sticks, and leaves. The tips of leafy shrubs stir with the mountain air. Aspens quiver, their trunks scarred and chipped away by wildlife. Ponderosa pine and assorted spruce trees reach for the sky while shedding a thin layer of pine needles on the ground below.

  A short distance into my trek, I enter a clearing, with ragged mountain peaks looming tall and intimidating before me. Then the trail takes me back into the forest where the echo of my footsteps magnifies my isolation.

  Alone. I am alone with my guilt.

  A mountain bird mocks me from a nearby tree. Another joins in. “Look at her! She dated a married man. Look at her! Look at her!” I fear they will swoop down and start pecking at me.

  Staring at the path inches in front of me, I shake my head. Lately I’ve been praying, but my prayers can’t penetrate my shame and my guilt to get to Him. I look toward the heavens. “What if I fail again?”

  “Apart from Me you can do nothing.”

  My thoughts wrestle within me as I try desperately to shake myself free. Fallen trees litter the forest. Bruised, battered. Dying.

  Dying so that others might live. That’s what Jesus did for me.

  I was a kid when I made my commitment to Him so long ago. How can I blame Rob for my mistakes? I’ve been deceiving myself, just as Rob deceived me. Saying I loved God, I would serve Him, live for Him, all the while ignoring Him and going my own way.

  Two clusters of columbine poke through the soil bordering the path. Heavy weeds have sneaked from behind and attached around one plant, causing it to wither to shades of brown, while the other plant has one lone bloom forging upward, petals leaning toward a spray of sunlight.

  Still it survives.

  Stooping down for a closer look at the plant, I’m amazed by the little bloom’s persistence. A lost petal lies beside it, revealing the challenges of the forest. Scarred and weary, this small flower refuses to die. In a world of fierce winds, shadows, and predators, this tiny bloom looks to the sun for strength. The sun pushes through the thick branches and bathes the columbine with new life it could not obtain on its own.

  My fingers reach for the flower, but I stop short. Wrapped in the sun’s embrace, it begs to be left alone. Tears slip down my cheeks. I look to the dying plant. It is me. Choked off, shriveling. I’ve stepped into the shadows, away from the Son. Oh, how I need Him! I can’t survive the journey through this life on my own. The temptations are too great without His help.

  The tiny columbine survives, but it too has scars. My fingers lift the fallen petal, then I look back to the flower basking in the sunlight. The fragile bloom is far from perfect, but its strength comes from the sun. Just as mine comes from the Son. I can’t erase my shame. What’s done is done. But I can start over. From here. In the whisper of the forest, I surrender the shame and my guilt to the One who sees all my flaws and loves me still.

  How long I stay beside the flower, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. God has heard my prayer, and that’s enough.

  My aching legs push me up, and I walk forward with a new spring in my step. Another clearing appears, and I ease into the warmth of the sunshine. My gaze rests upon an open meadow washed clean by the sun’s rays.

  That’s me. I’m clean. The butterfly drawing comes to mind. What’s that Steve said? A new beginning. This is my new beginning. A short distance to my right, the water of Aspen Creek bubbles and foams as it glides swiftly over rocks and boulders toward its destination.

  My gaze scans the horizon, where majestic peaks topped with a glaze of snow stand proud and strong. In the mountain quiet, Psalm 121:1 comes to me: “I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.”

  I can’t do this alone, but I can do this through You; You give me the strength. I will not move away again. I will stay by Your side and trust You, come what may, for I now remember the truth that I had long ago forgotten.

  “I am never alone.”

  24

  “How was lunch—better still, how was your cycle ride?” I tease Lydia and Millie when they step inside the motor home.

  Lydia’s cheeks are pink, her eyes wide and vibrant. “It was magnificent.”

  “Really?”

  “I told you that you would like it,” Millie says, her face matching Lydia’s flush for flush.

  “We went to the nicest shops, Dee. Jewelry, clothing, books, you name it. What a wonderful town,” Lydia says.

  “You should see the Stanley Hotel,” Millie says, breathless.

  Sounds as though the Biker Boys treated Lydia and Millie well. “The guys took you up
there?”

  Lydia nods. “That’s where we went to lunch.”

  “Wow, that’s really nice. I’ve heard about that place.”

  “There was a Red Hat group having lunch together there,” Lydia says, eyes twinkling.

  “They were having a great time, I can tell you,” Millie adds.

  “I told you they’re a fun group to be in.” Lydia turns to Millie. “Oh, we forgot to tell DeDe about the hauntings.”

  I laugh. “What?”

  Lydia swivels to me. “I don’t believe it, though.”

  “Believe what?” I ask.

  “Don’t be too quick to discount it, Lydia. Those testimonies sounded pretty convincing,” Millie says before turning to me. “They say the Stanley Hotel is haunted. They even have books about it.” Millie reaches into a package and pulls out a book. We browse through it together.

  Lydia looks up at me. “How about you, Dee—did you have a nice walk?”

  Settling onto the love seat, I look at her. “It was life-changing.”

  “Whoa.” Millie stops her walk toward the bedroom and turns back around to join us. “This I’ve got to hear.”

  I tell them about my walk, my talk with God, everything.

  Lydia comes over and hugs me. “That’s wonderful news, DeDe. I’m so happy for you.” Tears fill her eyes.

  Millie lifts a tentative smile. “Hey, I got your birthday pictures developed.” She pulls them out of the package, and we carefully go through them, laughing and talking about them along the way. Once Millie files them, we decide to walk around the camp and see how everything looks before the district board comes tomorrow.

  A fresh wave of pine scent hits me the moment we step outside. I have to admit it’s been great to be here again.

  “I sure hope the powers that be give this place another chance. So many memories,” Millie says as we glance around the camp. “I can’t bear to lose it.”