Bad Luck and A New Truck

RV renegades heading west, home in the rear view, a full moon gently guiding a streaked wintry sunrise.  Paul is chauffeur extraordinaire pumped up in his brand new ride, the very first and the very last freshly minted straight off the lot pickup truck.  Decades of motoring disasters, head scratching, tire kicking, years of emotional trauma and all cursing imaginable have earned Paul this marvel of trucking Nirvana.  Not certain the monster would even fit in our garage,  he tore through the wall to create a crafty window box for the front grille adding exactly enough clearance to ease the garage door closed within a breath of the tailgate.  “Baloney skin tight,” Paul's a miracle worker and master of old geezer morsels of wisdom.  Our bank account wants to know where our next meal is coming from but hey there is enough ramen and saltines in the RV to last through Tucson.  We're golden.  

Old Red treated us to an eye popping finale a few months ago, stranded in Wisconsin after a couple of days in the shop, a truckload of bucks lighter and about a hundred miles later, our stubborn gas guzzler wasn't ready for home sweet home yet.  Coughing and sputtering both the Dodge and me, we crawled then coasted into an absolute miracle truck oasis, a lucky haven for a couple of road warriors needing a seasoned mechanic and a stiff bourbon.  Under dazzling megawatt spotlights, an overnighter alongside cranky mooing cows and deafening big rigs, ours was the dwarf among giants, the comedy side show hilarious if you weren't part of the madness.  Eventually the sun rose on a gorgeous morning, a  brilliant diesel mechanic tweaked Old Red and sent us on our way.

Naturally as good friends often do, we shared some lousy mojo with our camping buddies.  After a very long story about turbos and tires and crying in the rain, finally repaired and an emotional declaration warding off Gartner demons, they made it back home in spite of us.  Bad news travels in threes or for RVers every time you press pedal to the metal, this journey is not for sissies, people with heart problems or anyone with an ounce of common sense.

If my sons ever need evidence for dumping me off at the local nut house, any of these tales stand alone as justification, told together I would never see the light for the rest of my days.  Grateful not to be the sole actor in this soap opera, just As The World Turns, so do these plots have accomplices, angels and demons, villains in common.  Here is the first installment, year ten of our battle against senility and the front porch rocker, the very next nail in my inevitable coffin.  Happy trails friends.