RV There Yet?

by Diann Hunt

  “We’ll just keep praying,” I say, feeling wonderful that I can mean it this time.

  Millie and Lydia head toward the kitchen while I walk to the dorm. I’ll just push the rags and paint things over to one corner so it doesn’t look quite so unkempt when the board comes. When I step inside, Steve is already in the room straightening the area.

  “I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t mean for you to do that.”

  “It’s no big deal. Just straightening a little,” he says with a smile.

  Picking up one of the rags, I toss it in with the rest of the pile. “I enjoyed your message this morning, Steve.”

  He brushes his hands together and turns to me. “Thanks.”

  “Um, in fact, I thought about it a lot on my walk.” I look up at him, wondering if I should tell him what happened.

  He waits a minute. “New beginnings?”

  Smiling, I nod, thinking of the butterfly.

  “I thought so. I could see it on your face when you walked in.”

  We talk about what happened to me on the trail, and before I know it, an hour has passed. A deep friendship is forming between us, and I’m enjoying it.

  A lot.

  After dinner we go back to the motor home to prepare for our evening gathering around the campfire.

  “I just don’t know what to wear. None of my clothes fit,” Millie complains. “I’ve put on too much weight out here.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say.

  “Sorry, girls,” Lydia says, obviously meaning it. “I don’t mean to mess up everyone’s diets.”

  “Oh well, it’s a great way to go. Besides, we can go back to our diets and exercise routines when we get home.” I smile at Millie, who doesn’t smile back.

  “My things are in such disarray,” she says, lifting clothes from her storage compartment. “How can I find anything in this mess?” She dumps everything from her bin and starts refolding.

  “Millie, what’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing is wrong,” she says in clipped tones.

  “Oh, yes, there is, Millie,” Lydia joins in. “When you go on an organizational binge, we know something is amiss.”

  She stops folding and looks up, tears pooling in her eyes. “I called the library. I think they’ve replaced me.”

  Lydia gasps. “Replaced you? Not possible.”

  “Why would you think that, Millie?” I ask.

  “They’ve hired a new lady to help out. We don’t need anyone else. What other reason would they have for doing that?”

  “Maybe she’s there to help with the computer transitioning,” I encourage.

  “So they say. I don’t buy it. They think I can’t handle the computer, that’s what. They’ve hired some young thing to take my place.”

  My thoughts flit to one new chocolatier in town, and I feel Millie’s pain.

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Lydia says. “You’ve been there too long.”

  “Precisely,” Millie says.

  “No, no. I mean, you’re valuable to them.” Lydia dabs on some perfume.

  I smile.

  “What? Just because I’m not interested in anyone doesn’t mean I have to smell like a moose,” Lydia says.

  “Agreed.” It’s great to see Lydia enjoying herself. This trip has been good for her.

  “I don’t think they care a twit about me,” Millie says, bringing us back to our discussion.

  “Do you think you need to go home so you can check things out at the library?” Lydia asks, looking worried.

  Millie’s back stiffens. “I will not do that. I don’t bail out of a job once I’ve committed myself to it. I will see the camp through to completion.”

  “One thing for sure, now is not the time to think about it. You have enough on your mind just managing this project. You can deal with the library when you get home. For now, enjoy your time at the camp. Tomorrow will take care of itself,” I say, smiling inwardly at my sudden burst of wisdom.

  Lydia and Millie must notice it too, because they both stare at me.

  “What?”

  “Since when did you get so smart?” Millie wants to know.

  “Some things we don’t learn through books, Millie. We can also learn by experience.”

  Twigs snap and pop in the campfire as we enjoy another great time of bonding over hot chocolate and coffee.

  “Did you know that researchers have decided that the special sense of well-being that comes from eating or drinking chocolate has more to do with the experience itself rather than anything actually in the chocolate?” I take another drink of my chocolate. “Isn’t that interesting?” When I look at the others, they’re staring at me. “Okay, maybe not.”

  A couple of comments are made about my candy addiction, but I ignore them and change the subject to our progress at the camp. Our enthusiasm is almost electric as we discuss the improvements we’ve made so far and the things we hope to do.

  Beverly joins us, and we finally get down to business.

  “I’m afraid I need to talk to you about something,” she says.

  “What is it, Beverly?” I say.

  “I’ve been going through our finances, and it’s taking far too much of the donation money just to keep things afloat.” She flips through her notebook. “We had to repair the plumbing—”

  Eric clears his throat.

  “We’ve had to buy supplies, food. The list goes on. I just don’t know how much longer the funds will last.” She looks up at us.

  “It’s all right, Bev,” Steve says. “If the Lord wants the camp to survive, it will. All we can do is offer our best. The rest is up to Him.”

  “I know that’s true, but it’s so hard not to worry,” she says. “This is not only my job, but it’s been my home for years.”

  Lydia nods.

  “I know.” Steve reaches for my hand and Beverly’s hand on the other side of him. “Let’s join hands and pray,” he says.

  We all grab hands, and Steve leads us in a wonderful prayer of thanksgiving and surrender.

  By the time we finish, we’re all a little teary-eyed and much lighter than before. I don’t know what the future holds for any of us, including the camp, but one thing is sure—after going through this adventure together, our little group will never be the same.

  About four o’clock the next morning, the storm raging outside my window wakes me up. I’m thankful that last night before we went to bed we closed the windows enough to keep the rain out of the motor home and that the duct tape is still holding. I look over at Lydia’s bed and see that it’s empty. Soft voices sound from the front room.

  “You couldn’t sleep either?” I ask, dragging my sleepy self into the living room.

  “Who could sleep with all that racket going on?” Millie wants to know.

  “Anyone want some tea?” Lydia is up and fixing it before Millie and I get our “yes” out.

  A sharp crack of thunder sounds close enough to split Waldo in two, then a loud crash causes us to shiver right along with Waldo.

  “What was that?” Lydia asks, her eyes wide, her breathing shallow.

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good.” Though I’m not given to fear, I have to admit that right now “a dark and stormy night” conjures up more than Snoopy’s attempt to write novels.

  “Should we check it out?” Millie asks.

  Separating the blinds, I peek out the window. “We’d better wait until the storm settles down a little.”

  When our tea is ready, we settle down to drink it and talk awhile, waiting for the storm to subside. Once the rain slows to a steady fall, we put on raincoats and step outside. Others from the camp are already surveying the area.

  Beverly is wringing her hands when we find her.

  “What’s happened, Bev?” I ask.

  “A tree has fallen over dorm one. The trunk missed the building, but branches have broken through a couple of windows.”

  I put my arm around her. “It will be all right.”
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  “That’s not all.”

  “What else?” Lydia asks.

  “Bears have broken through the back door of the cafeteria, made a mess of the kitchen.” Beverly lifts her hands to her face and breaks out in heavy sobs. “We may as well give up. It’s a lost cause.”

  Everyone has gathered around her by now.

  “If you think I’ve come all this way, at the risk of losing my job, just to turn tail and run, you are sadly mistaken, missy,” Millie says, her nose hiked. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy when we started this venture, and we were right. But nothing worth having is easy. The way I figure it, we have a few hours before the board gets here. I aim to get to work.” With that, Millie turns on her heels and goes back to the motor home to get dressed.

  By the look on everyone’s face, I’d say her little speech has encouraged the hearts of all of us. We quickly set to work, not knowing if it will do any good or not.

  Beverly sure knew what she was doing when she put Millie in charge.

  By the time the board comes, some of the mess the bears made has been cleaned up, but it’s obvious the toaster, blender, and bread machine will have to be replaced. The bears swatted them across the floor and sent them reeling.

  The guys had to wait for someone from the church to bring saws, and now everyone is working together to cut the fallen tree into chunks of firewood.

  Beverly placed orders for two new windows, and soon the world is set right on its axis once again.

  The only problem is, the concert is tomorrow night and the electricity is out.

  25

  The next afternoon is a buzz of activity, everyone frantically working on their concert pieces. Church guys are trying to get the electricity up and running for our microphones and keyboard.

  Some of the men heave a wooden platform over to the open meadow, then Steve and I work around the endless cords, setting up microphones and stands. In hopes that the electricity will be back on for tonight, the sound guys from the church put together some sort of PA deal, and one glance at the stage screams preschool program. An avalanche around seven o’clock tonight might be a good thing.

  Lydia brings a lovely brass kettle stuffed with wildflowers to the platform and sets it to one side. Okay, that’s as helpful as putting a dirty kid in clean clothes.

  “That’s nice, Lydia.” I mean, it is nice. Well, if you don’t count the fact that it’s sitting a little whopper-jawed on the boards. But, hey, who’s going to notice?

  She brushes her hands together. “Good. I’m going to bring another one out for the other side. It will give the place a little more warmth.” She looks once again at the flowers, then walks away.

  We’re surrounded by an alpine forest and majestic mountains, and she’s thinking we need wildflowers for warmth. Okeydokey.

  Millie’s horn blares from a nearby dorm. She’s been going from place to place to practice in hopes of keeping the elk away. Just call her the “Pied Piper.” Millie plays, the elk follow.

  Truthfully, they’ve been hovering at the edge of the woods, though they’re not coming too close since there are so many of us milling around.

  Beverly is darting around the camp here and there, trying to get things ready for the concert. She has assigned teams from the church to help. Once the microphones are in place, several of us begin to set up folding chairs, facing the platform.

  The weatherman promises a pleasant evening, and hopefully he’ll be right. I glance up. A few tiny wisps of cloud sail along the azure sky. Enormous mountains sweep down upon a sun-washed meadow.

  “DeDe, will you come here for a minute?” Steve calls me over to the keyboard that the guys have just placed on the stage. “Can you grab that microphone and say something?”

  “Testing one-two-three,” I say just as Steve pushes on the keyboard. My words and his note lift with the breeze. We all turn toward the volunteer electricians and clap. Beverly’s shoulders relax. One less thing to worry about.

  For now.

  Lydia places the second bunch of flowers on the stage and calls out to everyone that dinner is ready. We all head to the cafeteria and soon devour Lydia’s offering of sandwiches and homemade vegetable soup. Some people talk excitedly while eating; others sit in quiet. All of us handling stress in our own way. I figure, what’s to worry? It can’t be a sellout crowd. Not that I don’t want to sell a lot of tickets, mind you. We need the money, that’s certain. But, well, there’s something to be said for keeping one’s dignity intact, and I’m thinking our reputations could be on the line here. On the other hand, the crowd knows we’re not professionals, so why not enjoy ourselves?

  Dinner is soon over; we’re all dressed and ready for the concert. We make our way onto the open field where about fifty people have gathered for the event.

  I have to admit I’m surprised to see so many. I might add here that most attendees are in their twilight years—as in this concert could last past their bedtime. Okay, my bedtime too. The frightening thing about it all? The program is forty-five minutes long. An hour, tops.

  Beverly interrupts my thoughts by welcoming everyone. Her microphone sends a sharp echo through the crowd, causing Beverly to step back. “Guess my voice is more powerful than I thought,” she says with a chuckle. Smiles light the crowd.

  Nice audience. That’s a good sign.

  One by one we perform our numbers. We get through the first half and midway through the second half, and now it’s Millie’s turn. If the people go home now, they’ve seen a fair share of the program.

  Millie’s face is flushed as she walks up to the stage. She smiles at the audience, pulls her trumpet to her lips, opens a valve, blows, and spit falls onto the stage. Nice touch.

  She pulls the horn to her mouth once more and begins to blow. One of Eric’s buddies pulls out a trombone, and another belts out a second trumpet. Millie turns to them, looking as surprised as I am. The fellows turn this little number into a jazz ensemble, giving “When the Saints Go Marching In” a New Orleans type of sound. Finally, they come to the chorus the third time around, and the fellows drop out, leaving Millie to finish the number alone.

  By now her confidence is in full swing. I half-expect her to bebop through the crowd, moving her horn up and down with the rhythm of the music, but to her credit, she stays planted, merely lifting her horn heavenward as her notes climb higher and louder with every blow, bouncing from one mountain to the next until a strange bugle and grunting sound join the mix.

  I look past Millie at the guys to see who’s joined her this time, but they are looking around too. The strange bugling continues. Other people crane their necks, looking for the source of the sound. It’s then that I notice a group of elk, peeking just at the edge of the trees.

  Then out of the woods on the opposite side comes a bull elk. And let me just say that sucker is huge, with antlers that could serve as a coatrack for Goliath. He’s headed straight for Millie, who by now is so absorbed in her music, she has entered the heavenlies. People scream and scatter about while the men on the stage rush to Millie’s side and yank on her arm. She looks as though she’s ready to bop someone for interrupting her moment of glory until her eyes lock with Mr. Bull. This is where Millie’s legs kick into gear and carry her off like a hungry cheetah chasing his lunch.

  You can say what you will about Millie, but she’s no slacker.

  In a flash the entire meadow is cleared out. Mr. Bull reclaims his females, and off they go into the woods, leaving me, and most likely others, thankful that we opted not to take instrumental instruction.

  “Boy, I hope it’s all right that we left everything set up in the meadow tonight,” I say once we’re safely inside Waldo.

  “The guys were going back to tear down,” Lydia says. “They wanted to wait and make sure the elk were gone.”

  “Well, don’t expect me to go back,” Millie argues. “I’m not about to take on a seven-hundred-pound bull elk, thank you very much.” She plunks down on the sofa. “It was bad enough du
king it out with my husband, and he was a scrawny man.”

  She glances up at us, and we all start to laugh.

  Millie’s cell phone rings. Lydia and I make sure the way is clear, then we head back outside to help the guys clean up.

  “Well, that wasn’t quite the grand finale we had planned, but it worked,” Beverly says as we pick up litter around the concert area. “Poor Millie. Is she all right?” Beverly’s face shows nothing but concern, but Lydia and I both bust up laughing. She joins in, though I can see she feels bad doing so.

  “Millie is fine,” I say. “Though I don’t suspect she’ll take home any elk souvenirs.”

  Others join us in our efforts, and finally the concert area is clean. When we get back to the motor home, Millie is still sitting on the sofa, only now her eyes are red and puffy.

  “Millie, what’s wrong?” Lydia asks when we step inside.

  She waits a moment. “That phone call before you left?”

  We nod.

  “It was my mother.”

  Lydia gasps. “Is she sick?”

  “She’s fine. She called to tell me that Bruce’s wife”—fresh tears fall, and she wipes her nose with a tissue—“is pregnant.”

  “Pregnant? Isn’t he a little old for that?” I say, incredulous that a man in his fifties would become a father for the first time.

  “Do you know why Bruce and I never had children?” Millie asks as if she never heard my comment at all.

  Lydia and I shake our heads.

  “I have a tipped uterus. Did I ever tell you that?”

  Well, it’s not like that comes up in regular conversation. “So how’s the family?” “Why, they’re fine, thank you. By the way, I have a tipped uterus.”

  “Um, no,” I say.

  She nods. “That’s what made it so hard for us to get pregnant. It can happen; it just didn’t happen for me.” She looks up, tears swimming in her eyes. “Oh well, now he’ll get that baby he’s always wanted.”

  I want to say, “You’ve got a lot of elk admirers,” but this doesn’t seem to be the time.

  Lydia sets to work making tea. That’s a cure-all as far as Lydia is concerned. Millie cries some more until her tears are spent, while we sit beside her, saying nothing, hoping our presence is enough.