My fore-mothers were big on “If you have nothing good to
say, say nothing at all.”
Holding my tongue has, at times, served me well; and speaking
my mind has regretfully not. But truth
be told, there have also been times when my silence has mistakenly supported some
miscommunication, or bad behavior on the part of we humans, and I’ve deeply
regretted not voicing myself.
But speaking my mind these days would find me mostly talking
to myself. I’ve felt so terribly
incognito and out of sorts that I don’t look or feel myself:
I’ve traveled a bit these last few weeks to some lovely
state parks: South Llano River,
Palmetto, Huntsville and places in between.
I’ve walked and birded and tried to turn my sights on Mother
Nature, looking for the good:
And then I’d have more RV issues. And here comes my
not-so-proud-of-myself admission: I’m
find solo travels in this RV to be so very difficult.
I’ve felt torn and tattered with fighting my RV’s
unpredictable issues.
And then I’d experience the kindness of a stranger;
someone camping that would note my predicament and offer help. Or someone that would gladly offer aid when I’d
knock on their RV door, or approach their campsite with an embarrassed or
emotional voice, in need of help.
Without the help of these others that I do not know, I’d
have been stranded at Palmetto, unable to release a bound-up parking brake. Thanks to Fifth-Wheel Man, who responded to
my knock on his and his wife’s trailer door, a wee bit early one cold morning.
Fifth-wheel Man listened to my plight; listened to my
quaking voice as I read the less-than-useful information from the owner’s
manual. It was an uncomfortable situation
for me, asking someone I did not know to sit in my driver’s seat.
I watched and listened and spoke as he attempted, with
large-man strength, to exercise the lifeless parking brake handle. He pushed in the button and raised and
lowered, as exactly described by the manual. The brake would not release; the handle would
just “flop down” with no use.
Fifth-wheel Man and I reached the point of believing I
would require a tow—and then one last extreme effort—and the brake released! We both let out a loud YEA!—and I embarrassedly
had a release of water from my eyes, knowing that this kind man had just freed
me to again take flight.
Thanks to camper-strangers Mike and Terri for Mike’s
crawling under the RV with me to gain me courage to study the LP tank plumbing. We two strangers, with only lower legs and feet visible, crawled under the RV to find a likely valve, and to discuss the safety of a “lefty loosey” maneuver of it. Lefty loosey we did, and I now have LP furnace
capability! (Special thanks to Terri for
being on the ready if she heard a loud explosion!)
And thanks to Don for providing the hand-strength to
disconnect my leaking “quick-connect” hose fittings. My lack of hand strength is one of several
items I’d like to address with Mother Nature regarding Her design of we women-folk.
Everything that came so easy in the Airstream seems so
difficult in the Winnebago. Everything
that I once loved about family and community, I now so hate, traveling my one life,
solo.
And so I’ve returned to my stick house with some
difficult decisions to make. Much of the
RV brokenness is repairable; but its body-jarring ride is not. A local Mercedes dealership, specializing in
the Sprinter chassis, confirmed that “constraint”. And as of eleven years ago,
my body’s brokenness cannot function with such a harsh ride, without furthering
serious damage.
And so I’m at a loss for what happens next. Feeling out of sorts is an understatement for
seeking a reinvention of my purpose and goals.
But I give thanks to those unknown camper-folk whose
actions made me not feel incognito. They
saw; they heard; they helped. Actions
speak so much louder than words.
