Da Motor Home

In nearly 32 years of marriage, I've never seen my husband so crazy as he was last night. He had just returned from a trip to the gas station. Normally, a trip to the gas station---in this case Marley's Schweitzer Conoco on the corner of HWY 95 and the Schweitzer Cut-off Road--- wouldn't be a big deal.

But when you're driving your new 30-year-old motorhome, as yet unregistered in your name and coming up short on right rear-signal light action, ya gotta try to slink around and stay out of the heavy traffic. Add to that the fact that the motorhome has added all of 20 miles to its odometer in the past two years, which translates into a bit of blue smoke trailing behind you.

Well, that's pretty much how it was as Bill took off on his third nightly neighborhood tour with our recent purchase. The Dodge Brougham has belonged to my sisters for almost half its life. They've taken it to Saskatchewan to participate in a Canadian National Arabian Show. Otherwise, its jaunts have mainly been to Spokane or to Western Washington.

It's spent most of its time behaving a lot like cats---just sittin' around, taking up space. So, Barbara and Laurie decided to part with it, along with their 3-horse slant-load horse trailer. They wanted some money to buy a new, lighter, more presentable trailer, so Brother Kevin intervened and helped them strike up a package deal.

"Why not sell 'em together?" he suggested. They all knew of a closely-related willing party to this scheme, so they offered the deal, and I bit. I haven't had a horse trailer that would adequately fit my two big geldings ever since Rambo went blind. So, I sold my Lo-Boy about three years ago. There was no way I could expect Rambo to ride in it with his new handicap.

I've also wanted a motorhome and didn't care to buy a $30,000 model, so this seemed like a great deal. We came to a quick agreement. I dipped out of my savings and wrote 'em a check. They cleaned up the motorhome and trailer and delivered them Sunday. Since then, Bill, who kept razzing me about my 30-year-old motorhome, has acquired a fixation. Every single night, he's spent his after-dinner time cleaning, tinkering, opening drawers, searching out its basic gut structure . I think he still hasn't found where they hide the propane takes.

He's also taken it on a drive a night. The first evening he went to Yoke's to get some cereal. Thankfully no cops stops. The next night he drove it up Gooby Road and down Baldy, only to have a road-rage driver honk at him because he spent too much time at an intersection. Last night, he left, saying he was going to get some gas. Well, I learned, after he returned about an hour later, that he also took the RV across the highway to Wal-Mart.

Earlier this week, he suggested that we spend our first overnighter there because Wal-Mart welcomes RV camping in their parking lots across the nation. I told him that if he wanted to do that, he could go solo. Now, I'm not quite like my kids who refuse to set foot on Wal-Mart territory, but I certainly have my standards when it comes to my first RV venue. Meadow Creek Campground near Bonners Ferry or even Round Lake south of Sandpoint would be okay----but no Wal-Mart cement for me.

Turns out Wal-Mart and the purchase of some new windshield wipers wasn't the highlight of Bill's Wednesday night sojourn. Young Mr. Spade, who clerks at the Conoco Station, provided so much comic relief in assessing the motorhome's performance that it took Bill 15 minutes to stop crying before he could tell me the story.

Seems Young Mr. Spade could hear Bill and the motorhome coming up the Sand Creek hill toward the gas station. Seems the cat comparison ends when the motorhome goes into action. No purring whatsoever. Instead, a voluminous roar.

"He said"------Bill starts laughing.

"Well, tell the story," I said.

"He said"----Bill laughs some more.

I laugh but insist that he finish the story.

"He said"-----Bill starts crying.

"He said what?" I ask.

"He said"----Bill continues crying, now trying to stifle his tears and leaning up against the mantle.

"Well, what did he say?" I implore, now giggling and producing a few tears of my own.

"He said"----finally, Bill gives up and tells me he'll try to tell me the story later.

Well, it took my normally calm, stoic husband a few more tries, but finally he spit it out.

"He said, 'I heard that motorhome sputtering up the hill and said C'mon, baby, you can make it. C'mon!'" After that, Bill asked Young Mr. Spade if there were any muffler shops doing late-night business in the area.

We've had our new old motorhome for just three days. It's gone to Yoke's, around the Baldy loop, to Wal-Mart and to the Conoco station. It's already caused more laughter than any of the tennis, golf, or geocaching stories we could ever tell---and that even includes the two trips to the Emergency Room for Bill with his geocaching adventures.

Now, as I write this morning, Bill has informed me that he'll be coming home early this afternoon.

"I've got some stuff to do on the motorhome," he told me. I guessing that it may be heading to Melody Muffler today. I'm hoping he also does something about that signal light before crossing that busy Highway 95 intersection and turning into Wal-Mart for his sleep over.

Could be the Ponderay cops'll spot him and then I'll more stories to tell about my husband and his latest addiction---or would it be conviction?