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-Gramps-

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  1. -Gramps-

    Mortality, Chapter 2

    By -Gramps-,

    There is no cure for birth or death, save to enjoy the interval.
    -- George Santanyana
    Jonah gave Sarah a sly look. He was about to give her a surprise and I hoped he was not going to let the cat all the way out of the bag.
    "He is not really my little brother. He is my father."
    I am sure I gave Jonah the "now look at what you have started" look. Sarah had this somewhat puzzled expression on her face.
    "You're joking aren't you?" she asked, or maybe it was a statement. "You would have to be about..."
    I could see her mind doing some quick math.
    "You would have to be way past eighty, closer to ... wow!" She paused.
    Jonah quickly nodded his head. "Yep, it's been a long, long, time since Dad saw eighty in his rear view mirror. He is literally my old man," he said with an even bigger grin.
    Sarah was looking at me the same way she would a waffle that suddenly sprouted legs and starting dancing in the middle of the table.
    "Mr. Christopher, you sure don't look anywhere near that old," she said.
    She must have been struggling with believing this concept and needed an explanation, because she then asked:
    "Come on, how old are you really?"
    I stood up and grabbed my trouble making son by the arm.
    "We take a lot of vitamins, by the handfuls," I said. "We need to go. Thanks for the waffles."
    I hastily pushed Jonah from the kitchen, past the wooden grandmas and out the office door, the bell loudly proclaiming our exit, before she could ask me anything more.
    Jonah laughed all the way to the motor coach. For just a minute I wished he were 6 instead of 10 times that. That way I would have a better way to express the displeasure I was feeling at that moment.
    But all I said to him was, "Let's get packed up."
    By the time most of the morning had passed, Jonah and I were finishing up all the inside and outside things that we needed to do to break down camp and take off.
    Inside, we secured all loose items in their overhead compartments, fastened all cabinet doors, turned all seats around and returned them to their full upright positions. Outside, it was close to noon but still freezing. I dumped the tanks and packed up the sewer hose and the water hose. Both hoses fought being curled up and stuffed away like a couple of coldblooded creatures with minds of their own. Some fellow camper always walks over to watch you do this, but because the campground was practically frozen and deserted it was left up to Jonah to be my only observer.
    I was still perturbed at him. I thought he had made light of "my secret." Jonah constantly tells me that I guard my age like an old woman. As I was fighting with the gray tank flush hose, I reminded him that on the rare occasion that my age or any number close to it is revealed to someone, either by accident or on purpose, it makes them and me uncomfortable. And people don't like being uncomfortable.
    "That's kind of redundant isn't it?" he responded. "Not being comfortable being uncomfortable. Can you like being uncomfortable? Is it possible to be comfortable being uncomfortable? I need to ponder this," he said while holding his chin.
    "Oh, shut up."
    "Oh, lighten up little brother."
    "That's not funny."
    "I think it is. Come on, Dad, it was a logical mistake that allowed me to have a bit of fun. Why let it bother you? I am the one who should be upset. She thinks I am a 66-year-old man who looks 10 years older than his father who she thinks is about 90 years old. It's a funny situation."
    "Not to me. What what do you think she would have done if you had told her just how old I really am?" I paused and answered my own question.
    "She would have done what a person does when they think someone is crazy."
    "We take vitamins. That was a good one, Dad," Jonah said. "I think she would want to know what kind. Let's go tell her!"
    He laughed at me, again, obviously enjoying my displeasure with that idea.
    "Just kidding. Come on, it's time to go. If we're heading back to Florida we need to get moving." He pasued. "We are heading back to Florida?"
    "Eventually, but we are going to Cozy Acres first."
    "Oh, so the next stop on this trip down memory lane has to be someplace cold?"
    Our next stop was very cold indeed, and not just because of the weather.
    We had stayed five days in Smithfield waiting for the weather to improve and for some mail, composed of a few bills, a couple of checks, and a package, ironically containing vitamins, to catch up with us.
    We had stayed longer than I wanted to, so I was glad to be back on the road.
    It was about a three-hour drive by car from Smithfield to Powhatan. It would take us a bit longer in a 39-foot-long motor coach, of course. We did not need to stop for fuel, neither for the coach nor for ourselves. We had plenty of gas and energy bars. Jonah was behind the wheel, I was in the copilot's seat, with Alex on my lap. He would sit there for awhile staring out the windshield and after a few minutes the passing trees would bore him, so he would usually end up on the floor, on his dog bed, happily chewing on a rawhide that he took from his stash that he keeps under the dining table.
    Jonah said a quick prayer for a safe trip, and then loaded his King Crimson CD, into the player, fastened his seat belt, and pushed the yellow knob to release the parking brake. He slowly coached the coach out of its spot, glancing in the rear-view video monitor to make sure our towed car was following correctly, not wobbling back and forth.
    "Okay, all looks good," he announced.
    We drove past the office, Sarah unseen inside, and eased out of the campground. After a right turn onto the service road and after about a minute's drive we were zipping north on Interstate 95.
    We were headed to a secluded and comfortable campground in Powhatan, Virginia. From there we would drive the car to a spot northeast of Richmond, named Cold Harbor. It had been a very long time since I was last there. Jonah had never been there and I wanted him to see the site of one of the bloodiest battles ever fought in any war. I also wanted him to travel with me to a country church cemetery not far from the battlefield.
    There were many Civil War veterans of that terrible battle buried there, men from both sides of the conflict. Some men died on the battlefield. Some men died later, much later, but wished to be buried there. I planned to see the final resting place of one of those men.
    I wanted to visit the grave of my father.
  2. -Gramps-
    As a kid I enjoyed serial stories in magazines. Works of fiction published one chapter at time. I read them and couldn't wait for the next installment. The next chapter.
    The number one thing that all good fiction writers say is common about writing is that writing should be about something that you know about. I know about communications, photography, history, RVing, and I know about myself and my family. I have also read that you should write about something that you love. I love all the above. (Yes, I can be a bit self-absorbed, at times.)
    So with those directions in mind I have written the first chapter of a novella or novelette. A novella is defined as a written, fictional prose narrative longer than a novelette but shorter than a novel. The novella has a word count of between 17,500 words and 40,000 words. A novelette has between 7,500 words and 17,499 words.
    So it remains to be seen what this will be. I don’t know where this work will take me, or us, because you the reader will be on this journey with me. I will try to make it enjoyable for us both, but I will need something from you. Your input is necessary. So please comment. If you don’t I will not know if my work is going to make you want to travel further on.
    Thanks.
    Gramps
    MORTALITY: Chapter One
    "It's a funny old world, a man's lucky if he gets out of it alive."
    -- W.C. Fields
    If the sun is shining through my motor coach bedroom skylight, wherever the location or whatever the time zone that happens to be at the time, I have the ability to always wake at exactly 7 a.m. If there is no sunlight shining into my bedroom, then I wake at exactly 7:30. I know because I always verify the time on my glowing blue-green cheap Timex watch. My wife used to tell me the time by pressing a button on her alarm clock and it would shine a red light with the time on the ceiling. But that doesn't happen now because that side of the bed is empty and cold.
    It is now morning and, like most mornings, I can hear my son Jonah moving around in the living area of our motor coach. He has already folded up the air mattress bed back into the couch. I can hear him pouring fresh water into the dog's bowl as he talks to Alexander, my elderly Cockapoo. That is a terrible name for a breed of dog. I prefer Spoodle as a better moniker.
    Alexander sleeps on the fold-out bed with Jonah. The dog doesn't seem to like the foot of my bed anymore, now that he realizes he has his choice of humans to curl up next to. Of course, my recent bout of restless leg syndrome, which causes him to fly off the bed in the middle of the night, may have influenced his decision to change his sleeping arrangements.
    "Dad, are you moving around in there? I taste waffles already"
    "Yes, I am getting up,". I answer as I crawl out of bed and slip on a pair of Tommy Jeans that has been neatly hanging on the back of one of the bedroom chairs all night. I pull on a long-sleeve green T-shirt that says "Outer Banks" on the front, slip my feet into some worn-out Topsiders and then hit the head.
    As I said, this morning is like so many mornings. We keep to certain rituals, with some variations. If there is coffee available in the office of the campground we are staying at, we grab our own mugs -- I can't stand Styrofoam cups -- and we walk over to procure some. If there isn't any coffee we make our own. If there is breakfast available, we make every effort to be there. This morning, like the last five mornings since we arrived here in the Smithfield North Carolina KOA, we are going to make our own waffles. The office has easy-to-use waffle makers, waffle ingredients of course, and real Mrs. Butter-Worth's syrup to go with them. None of that fake Mrs. Butter-Worth's will do.
    Jonah, who just finished feeding Alex his morning breakfast of the same little brown nuggets of nutrition he gets every morning, hands me my jacket.
    "Dad," he says as he glances down at my feet. "There is still snow on the ground; you need to put some socks on."
    "I won't loose any toes to frostbite, let's go."
    I almost fall on my skinny butt as my tread-less Topsiders hit the ice at the bottom of the two outside steps. It is cold so I zip my jacket up to my chin.
    Jonah closes the door, makes sure it is locked, and we slip and slide our way over to the office.
    We don't talk much as we carefully walk toward the waiting waffles. We mostly watch each other breathe the crisp air in and out, human steam curling around our heads.
    "Did you sleep well?" one of us may ask the other one.
    "Fine. How about you?"
    "I had one of those nasty leg cramps last night again."
    "You need to drink more water. That should help."
    Like most mornings that is about as exciting as it gets.
    We walk through the office door, me first, and the bell attached to the top announces our arrival.
    The KOA office is typical of most campground offices. A camp store in the front with vinyl sewer hoses and connectors, water hoses, soap, light bulbs, fuses, overpriced useful things that you buy in a hurry, well, when you need them in a hurry. Also for sale are not-so-useful things like wind chimes, ceramic thimbles, spinners, light thingies you hang around your neck, stupid things like wooden grandma back ends that you stick in the ground. Off to one side there is a rack of brochures of tourist traps and attractions. Some groceries on the self, a glass top freezer with Nutty Buddies and Eskimo Pies, maybe some pints of Ben and Jerry's. Every campground that Jonah and I have traveled to, it's the same stuff. The quantities and the quality may differ a bit, but the fact that it is always there is comforting in a way.
    "Good morning, Mr. Christopher," said the young lady in the yellow golf shirt, behind the counter, looking at me. I didn't respond fast enough for my son.
    "Good morning to you too, Sarah," answered Jonah.
    Jonah learned her name in the first five minutes of the first day. After five days I still didn't know what it was. Maybe I should have looked at her name tag.
    "Now I told you to call me Jonah," he continued, smiling that big smile of his.
    Sarah glanced over at me. She tried again.
    "Good morning to you, too, Mr. Christopher."
    "His name is George."
    I smiled at her and told her good morning. I guess I didn't smile big enough.
    "Mr.Christopher, there is a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen and the waffle makers are nice and hot, too. Go help yourself and if you need anything just holler."
    Jonah just laughed, grabbed me by the arm and led me to the kitchen.
    "Come on George; let me make you some waffles."
    If I let it, it could really make me mad when people think I'm not friendly.
    After dispensing myself a cup of hazelnut coffee, my wife's favorite, I sat down to nurse it and my slightly bruised ego.
    Jonah operated the waffle irons to his satisfaction and placed a paper plate with a one large plain waffle in front of me. He sat down with a plate of four waffles, with lots of butter and Mrs. Butter-Worth's dripping down the sides. He could still eat with the careless abandon of an athletic 18-year-old without it affecting his much older waistline. I also ate without much thought. Actually half the time I just didn't think about eating. I live on very few calories. I miss my wife's cooking. I miss sitting across from her when eating someone else's cooking. For over 50 years just having her there with me made everything taste better. Without her, there was not much taste at all.
    While Jonah was eating and I was nibbling, Sarah came into the kitchen with another camper. She was showing him how to operate the waffle irons and pointed to the chilled carafes of juice, and milk next to the coffee dispensers. As the obviously new guest started to pour some waffle batter into the iron, she turned and sat at the table with Jonah and myself.
    "So, are you two still planning on leaving today or can we help you to stay around a bit longer?" she asked.
    I looked up at her.
    "I think we will be pulling out today, kind of late tough. Is it okay for us to leave a bit after check out?"
    "Sure, as you can tell we aren't that busy. What with the snow and all. Stay as late as you like. If you decide to stay any more days, just come by the office tomorrow."
    "Thanks, Sarahâ", said Jonah. "We have enjoyed it here, especially the waffles." He gave her another one of his big smiles.
    I saw her face light up and I knew he had done it. He had opened the door.
    "Where are you two off to next?" She asked casually.
    Jonah answered just as casually.
    "We are not sure, maybe Florida, somewhere along the coast. Maybe I can talk George here into going back to Fort Wilderness, but I think he wants to go farther south, so he can warm up his ancient old bones a bit."
    I understood Jonah's choice of words, and he knew it too.
    "Mr. Christopher, are you going to let your brother call you ancient?"
    "How old do you think he is? Make a good guess now,'' prompted my still smiling son.
    "You don't look over what, forty-something...I guess forty five?"
    This comment really tickled Jonah, which is what he wanted. This was a game he liked to play with me, and that guess just egged him on even more.
    "Forty-five?" He grinned at me. "You are so close. How old do you think I am?" he asked.
    Sarah looked him over for before answering "mmmm..I'd say about the same. No, maybe a few years older...so fifty-five?"
    Jonah smiled at her. "Why, thank you, darling, but nope, I will be sixty-six on my next birthday."
    Sarah looked very surprised. "Really?"
    He looked over at me. "Isn't that right, little brother?"
    I just gave him the same patient smile I always gave him. I was thankful that Jonah didn't tell Sarah that at the exact moment Robert E. Lee was surrendering his sword to General Grant, that I was coming, kicking and screaming as they say, into this world.
  3. -Gramps-

    A Quick Weekend

    By -Gramps-,

    This past weekend, Diane and I took the coach, the dog (can't leave home without him!) and the grandboys to Virginia Beach, Va. We stayed in the premier sites at the Holiday Travel Campground. The premier sites are a bit larger pull-thrus than the rest of the sites. The campground is about 40 minutes from our home. We left about 2:45 in the afternoon and arrived about 3:30 or so.
    We didn't do much the first night except grill some burgers while the boys explored the playground next to us. Later that night, we moved back to the sitting area in the bedroom. The boys curled up on the bed, and I took a chair and read to them.
    We have been reading "The Magician's Nephew." It is book one or book six, depending on which release of the set of books, of the Chronicles of Narnia. After a few pages of Uncle Andrew's Troubles we decided to watch a movie. Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. My wife loves the movie and the boys seemed to like it as well. While the movie was playing, I snuck back to the bedroom, sat down in one of the rockers and put up my feet and opened a Clive Cussler novel. I needed some time to myself.
    It had been a rough morning. It seems that I can have a slow week, but the day we plan on leaving in the rig for anywhere, some phone system decides to go down for some reason. On this particular morning a major medical practice had trouble due to an expiring Internet IP address. This is not an easy problem to fix, so I figured it would take all day and our trip was going to evaporate. However, Diane decided that I would resolve the problem with time to spare, so she packed up the coach by herself while I drove nine miles away to the site. She was right. I was home by 1 p.m. We finished loading the coach with enough food and clothes for a weekend, pulled the coach out and hooked up the tow. The only thing left was for the boys to be dropped off by their Mom.
    The boys were on the pull-out bed while the movie played and so by the time it was over, they were out for the night. Tomorrow would be a Saturday with no emergency phone calls. I hoped so, anyway.
    Saturday morning began with plenty of sunshine. We ate a quick breakfast of cereal for the kids, cottage cheese and pineapple for Diane and me. Our dog, Nickolas, figured that he would be left alone for the morning to guard the coach, so he decided to sulk and not eat his breakfast. Hey, you can't please everyone!
    After breakfast we took a brisk walk around the campground, dog and all. After that we secured the pup in the coach, locked up and took the car to the Virginia Aquarium to catch the 11:15 showing of Disney's A Christmas Carol 3d Imax film. We planned to get there early enough to buy good seats.
    The aquarium was only 10 minutes away. We got there and found out that the first show was not full and we also had time to visit part of the aquarium, see the film and then see the rest of the facility. Sounded like a plan to me.
    So we watched the fishies swimming around, observed a SCUBA diving demonstration and then headed for the movie.
    I love wearing those goofy 3D glasses over my glasses. A Christmas Carol was, or should I say is, a really good film. Jim Carrey wonderfully plays Scrooge and all three Christmas Spirits. The 3D effects are mesmerizing. In other words, I highly recommend this movie. It should really put you into the holiday spirit unless you are a pre-converted Scrooge.
    After the movie we picked up where we left off in the museum/aquarium. We visited the aviary, just in time for the feeding of the birds with lots of dead mice, crickets, squid and all kinds of other appetizing things. We watched the otters for awhile, then walked back to the parking lot and drove back to the campground.
    At this point I needed to get ready for the event of the day. The official chili cookoff was set for 6:30 that very evening. It was four o'clock by the time we got back from the aquarium, so I need to get to work. I knew that there were about 11 entries and I planned to win this thing. Diane won the last time we were at this campground. As a matter of fact we were using the two free nights that were her prize for being the only one who entered the contest! Hey, a win is a win in my book. This time though, it was going to be a bit harder.
    I think I make a really good chili. It has a bit of a kick to it. My special ingredient is a bottle of lime and salt beer. There are a number of different kinds and I use what I can find at the time. I also use red, orange and yellow peppers along with lots of chili powder, black pepper and some other spices that, well, are my secret. Also, I add frozen corn for color and a bit of texture to go along with the kidney and black beans.
    Around 6 p.m. we headed over to the dining room where the contest was taking place. There were supposed to be 12 entries, but two were no-shows. I was number 11. The judges started taking small samples of each starting with number one. After they finished, the rest of us lined up and hit the Crock-Pots. I went for a white bean and chicken chili that tasted more like chicken soup with white beans. Two entries were made with cubed beef instead of ground. Both tasted like beef stew. No kick. As a matter of fact, the only one out of the five I tasted that had any spice to it was mine.
    So I was a somewhat surprised when the two blandest entries, that didn't even taste like chili, won first and second place. I have entered four or five cooking contests now and I cannot figure out what these judges are thinking or tasting. It must not have been the same thing I ate! Well, my grandkids, Diane, and the people running the event said mine was the best, so that's good enough for me. Plus, the boys really enjoyed themselves filling up on chili and bread, cheese and sour cream.
    We headed back to the coach and since we were kind of in a food mood, we stuck Ratatouille in the DVD player. That movie was also a lot of fun. You really can't beat a good Pixar film.
    Once again we timed it good. The movie ended and so did the boys. The next morning we had a quick breakfast and went and played a game of miniature golf. That was fun for all involved even though some of the holes were almost impossible to play. Afterward we packed up after meeting our camping neighbors, who toured our coach. By 2 it was time to leave.
    Our trip home was short and uneventful. We pulled into the driveway and unpacked the coach. It was a quick weekend, but sometimes those can be really good. By the way, the boys are named Carson and Austen. Two good kids. I think you would like them.
  4. -Gramps-

    A Different Perspective

    By -Gramps-,

    Woof!
    The last two entries of this blog have been kind of serious and sad. Too much for me, to tell you the truth. I think we should go back to having some fun. Gramps' rules for owning a motor coach, especially number four, are just that. So, in order to lighten things back up, I have decided to hijack this blog and post one entry for myself. I don't think Gramps (I know him as Dad, but he really is my person) will mind all that much.
    This entry is about Motor Coaching, but from a different perspective.
    I love traveling in the bus, as Mom (Diane to you) calls it. I love watching my people load the bus up with all kinds of interesting things. I think they carry too many things out there, but it isn't my place to suggest they may be over packing. I love to see what goodies they are bringing, especially the things that go into that big cold black box they call a fridge (it doesn't look like the fridge in the house!).
    Dad is a sucker for a couple of big brown eyes, so I usually end up sharing things like cheese and sardines with him. I love sardines. He split a beer with me once. I didn't like it. It tasted bitter and it made me sneeze. You may have read that on one occasion, he "shared" a lot of Turkey Soup with me. Now, that was a happening feast that a creature like me usually only gets to dream about!
    After awhile it makes me dizzy, all the trips out to the coach, boxes of cans, and crackers and clothes and stuff. I am always told to stay by the front door while they march back and forth to the coach parked in our driveway. After about 10 of these trips I can't stand it anymore, so I make a dash for the coach steps. Mom and Dad usually fuss at me a bit; sometimes they let me into the coach. Usually they send me back to the house. I will admit that I don't like that.
    When they finally get everything loaded, and checked and then double checked and I hear the word that it's time to hit the road, I am more than ready. At my age the steps can be a bit rough on the ol' back legs, but I get excited and take them two at a time. I have one responsibility, so the first thing I do is head to the back of the bus where a big white container with an air-tight lid is stored. That is my supply of chow and it better be there. The trouble is, I have not figured out how to let the folks know if it isn't. Well, so far after five years of checking, I haven't needed to. But you never know, there could be a first time!
    Moving down the road in the coach is great. I sit on Mom's lap and that gives me a terrific view out of our huge windshield. I love the air that blows on me, too. Dad makes it cold somehow. He must be a genius. Mom doesn't always like it as frigid as Dad, but with me on her lap she puts up with it.
    Sometimes I push a button next to Mom's seat just to see what happens. Usually Dad will say something like, "Why is your map light on?" or "Hey, what's going on ... the shades are coming down!" He gets really excited when the step cover starts opening on its own.
    I sometimes get sick in the car. I don't know if that is because it is a small moving space or if it is because sometimes I do not care for where it takes me, like to see Miss Vickie, that woman who hoses me down and then sticks a blow dryer in my face! But, the coach is a very different thing. It is relaxing. I can get down from my perch on Mom's lap; sleep on the couch or on my pillow on the floor or just grab some water if I want it. Try that in a big truck pulling a trailer ...
    Oh, arf ... I have to end this for just a minute. I hear Dad coming down the hall and I do not think he would be pleased to see me messing with his computer. He yells at the cat when she jumps on the keyboard, and yells really loud when he is writing at the time. Oh, in case you were wondering, the cat never travels with us. She hates the coach and would just hack up a big yellow hairball or two and leave them on the dash, right where I like to sit. Got to go ...
    I am back!
    I am not sure what else I can tell you. This is my first dog blog, after all, and writing is not that easy. Let me think of something else, oh ...
    I have enjoyed most all the places we have been. I love visiting rallies with lots of other coaches (hey, I get invited in all the time!) I love meeting other people, both two and four leggers. I love hiking with Mom and Dad on a trail through the mountains. The smells are exciting. I like the ocean, well running on the beach to be precise, the water I don't care for. Now when we travel to the beach, my Mom gets out my (I don't claim it!) tropical shirt and puts it on me. I can stand the shirt, but the hat ... one day when no one is looking I plan to chew that thing into tiny pieces!
    My favorite place to travel to in the motor coach is, for the most part, wherever my people are headed, but there is one stop that is really great: our new home in the mountains. It is the one place where I get to run around without my leash, and the other people there ... well, they are wonderful friends to my people. I have a friend there as well. Her name is Godiva. At mealtimes, everyone shares all kinds of tasty things with us both. I do prefer Dad's cooking. Now I am thinking about that soup again!
    I need to wrap this up, so:
    Here are my rules for owning a motor coach:
    Do not leave home without the dog in the coach.
    Do not leave home without the dog's food in the coach.
    Do not leave home without the dog's food bowl in the coach.
    Do not leave home without the dog's water bowl in the coach.
    Do not leave home without the dog's treats in the coach.
    Do not leave home without the dog's leash. It makes the person I am leading feel safer.
    Do not leave home without the poopy bags. I don't really care, but Mom and Dad don't think I should leave stuff on the trail for some reason.
    Go figure.
    Nickolas

    I hate the hat. But I love Mom!
  5. -Gramps-

    25 Years Ago, Part 2

    By -Gramps-,

    I wrote the story about Wayne two or three years ago, maybe longer. I don't really remember when I wrote it to tell you the truth. I wrote it in response to a young lady who was a member of a Medal of Honor online gaming clan who posted a request for prayer on our clan forums. Her fiance had just been killed in a car accident and she was devastated. The story was originally addressed to her. Shannon was her name. For the most part that was the end of it until two days ago. That was when I got the urge to post it on my FMCA blog. Which I did, yesterday afternoon just before Diane and I left for a local church event.
    It's funny how things work out sometimes..
    Twenty Five Years Ago, This Month, Part Two.
    As of last night there is a definite connection between being a coach owner and what happened twenty five years ago. Twenty five years ago the 24th of this month to be exact.
    A week or so ago Janis and Gary our twin coach owners invited us to a special event at their church. It is a walk through play called Judgment House. This is a nationally sponsored play that takes place in many churches around the nation, but the subject of the play usually is based on some local tragic event. This event is used to illustrate and dramatize the final consequences of the choices, some good and some bad, that people make. We agreed to attend one of the performances of this play. I did not know much of anything about this play until the day we went, yesterday, last night to be exact.
    The subject of this drama was a bit of a shock to me.
    The play was called the Arlene Jones Story.
    This was the same Arlene that was my friend Wayne's girlfriend and fiance.
    Not knowing what to expect, I was not sure I could watch it all. I decided, since I try not to believe in coincidences, that for some reason, it was meant for me to see this play, so I made up my mind, took a deep breath and drove us to the church where we were met by Gary in the parking lot at about 4:45 in the afternoon. He took us into the staging area, the church gymnasium, and it was packed. I had heard that due to a wave of word of mouth that as many as 1400 to 1500 people were waiting to see the performance each night.
    I didn't think anybody even remembered the event. I had tried to forget it. But here I was, standing in line and a few minutes later, sitting in the middle of a church gym, feeling a bit uncomfortable, waiting with Diane and Gary in a crowd of chatting people, none of whom I knew at all, for our names to be called and then to observe a reenactment of what I thought was a completely senseless, and meaningless event. An event that cost me a good friend and, my first business.
    After a few minutes of just sitting there, with my left leg bouncing nervously, I began to feel uncomfortable, a lot. I started looking for the closest exit..just in case I needed it.
    We had some time to wait, so Diane and Gary got up to buy some popcorn at a concession stand in the back of the gym. This was the perfect time for me to make a dash for it. To leave this play before the memories that might come flooding back caused me to squirm, over heat, be ill, maybe even throw up or worse yet have a big nasty panic attack (and I have had them before), which would really make me do all the above.
    I didn't leave; instead I got up and moved to the back row, and sat down next to a man a bit younger than myself, with a name tag on, who was engaged in a rather animated conversation, and waited for a chance to introduce myself.
    While standing in line to sign up for the play I had overheard a conversation between one of the staffers and one of the attendees. From that conversation I learned that the son of Arlene was sitting in the back of the gym. His name was OC and now I was sitting next to him.
    It became apparent that, reluctantly for him, he was now a bit of a church celebrity. Ladies of the church both young and old kept coming up and introducing themselves. I patiently waited for a chance to tell him who I was.
    He turned to me and I put out my hand and told him that I was Derrick Parker, that I knew his mother and that Wayne had worked with me. He looked very surprised. We, with some two or three interruptions, had a short but extremely important conversation. Details that I had heard over the years, some big, some not, were verified, some corrected. I told OC things he didn't know and he did the same for me.
    I learned that the killer only killed himself after accidentally wounding himself with his own ricochet bullets from the fireplace in the living room. Once he knew he could not catch the boys, and escape from the scene, he finished himself off. OC learned that I had seen his Mom just a few days before at the trade show, and that I had tried to get Wayne to bring her to dinner on the night that they were both killed. His response was it just wasn't in the cards for them to live.
    I think then I realized that we both had been hurt, were still hurting...a lot more than we, or maybe just me, knew.
    OC told me that he would still be there after I went through the play and to come see him if I wanted to talk some more. I responded "okay".
    I wasn't sure that I would talk to him again. I wasn't sure I could even make it through the play.
    But I did.
    I don't think I can describe it that well for you. If I was an official theater critic, I could tell you that the play was a bit amateurish at times. I could tell you the concept of walking from room to room and seeing various scenes of Arlene's life and death play out, even the graphic ones, were interesting and effective, but for me it was not at all about how well the scenery and props looked or how well the actors performed. For me it was about something going on inside of me.
    I was watching the play, but I was also somewhere else at the same time. I was back in my office on the last day that I saw Wayne alive, or I was back in my kitchen when I got the terrible phone call, or I was in my car, miserably driving to an appointment that Wayne should have been keeping.
    At the end of the play is a scene of Heaven and of ****.I remembered my own private **** that I was in after Wayne's death and it was then I realized I had never really left it.
    I also realized the loss of Mike had only made it worse.
    I walked out of the last room, the last scene of the play and while my wife waited in the car, I went to find OC.
    I found him standing along the side of the gym, up against the wall, surrounded by a bunch of young ladies. Once again I waited patiently for a chance to speak to him.
    "What did you think?" he asked.
    "I think your Mother and Wayne would both have approved" I responded. "They would have appreciated some good coming out of that night."
    And then I said something I didn't mean to say.
    "Because Lord knows I haven't seen any good before now"
    OC looked hard at me, and then leaned in closer.
    "I haven't either, not for twenty five years, not until this week."
    Then I told him about losing Mike. That this was my second time losing a friend and partner.
    Then he wrapped his arms around me and said "Maybe this will give you some closure. It finally has, for me."
    He was only fifteen when he lost his Mom and the man that would have become his step father. He loved them both. Years before that he lost his father and yet now he could hug me and hope that I would finally be healed of my hurt. His concern for me broke my heart.
    He let go. I stood there with tears in my eyes. I could hardly speak but I managed to give him my card and said I would like to keep in touch.
    "That would be great, how about we go to lunch and just talk sometime? Would you like that?"
    "Oh yea, I really would."
    Then he was once again surrounded by others and I quietly walked to the car. I asked Diane to drive us to dinner, where we had a quiet conversation over soup and sandwich. I hate to admit it to my Baptist friends but I really wanted a beer.
    It was during dinner and over a short draft, that I realized a long string of events had led up to this moment. It started with a purchase of a Bounder that had a simple brake failure that led to a test drive that led to buying a particular coach, that led to a nice married couple contacting us with questions about the same coach, which led to a friendship that helped with one recent loss, and now...
    Now I realized that God had orchestrated something bigger; he used my RV and the RV world to provide the means to have many friends, but two in particular named Gary and Janis who without knowing it, were used by Him to open a scarred over twenty five year old wound that had never really had the chance to heal....until now.
    Now faith renews and the healing begins.
    Derrick
  6. -Gramps-
    This blog entry doesn't have anything to do with the motor coaching lifestyle. Not directly, anyway. But the event does have a lot to do with how much I appreciate the friends that RVing has provided to my wife and I. Friends who have helped me get through the loss that I wrote about in The Course of Dreams. That story was about the second time I lost a close friend.
    This story is about the first.
    WAYNE
    In the summer of 1984 I moved my start-up small business out of my home into a small office in a really neat old building in downtown Norfolk, Virginia. I had a secretary, a salesman, and one installer -- me. My salesman was not giving the business much attention, and as a result was not very successful. I needed an additional person to spark a little competition.
    One fall day I was talking about this problem with the pastor of our church. He was familiar with my dilemma and my business because my current salesman also attended the church and the pastor also worked with me on large installation jobs. He suggested that I talk to a new member of the church named Wayne.
    "Wayne?" I said. "He retired from the Coast Guard; I don't think he knows anything about selling phones."
    My pastor assured me that Wayne could learn. I was not so sure. Wayne just did not fit the mold of the typical telecommunications salesperson. He was short, bald, with a full gray beard and most of the time wore all black clothes and sandals to church. He seemed like he was some kind of ex hippie to me.
    "What do you have to lose?" said Pastor.
    "Nothing except a lot of time and energy" I responded. But I agreed to talk to Wayne.
    Wayne had to retire on medical disability due to liver problems. I think he may have caught hepatitis at some point and he also at one time had a drinking problem. He was a Master Chief and the CO of a Coast Guard cutter, so he had some leadership skills, or so the Pastor kept telling me. I just needed someone who could help me; it sounded like the pastor wanted me to help him. I was not thrilled with the whole idea.
    I talked to Wayne after church one fateful Wednesday night. He told me that he wanted no salary or draw, that he would work on straight commission and he would learn the phone business. He was all smiles and seemed excited about working for me. Someone excited -- that would be a change in itself. I agreed to give it a try. Wayne would start the next Monday. I hoped he would at least show up with shoes and socks on.
    I did not see Wayne in church on Sunday. I don't remember if he was not there or if I was working. On Monday morning when he showed up at the office with a haircut, trimmed beard, dark suit, starched white shirt and tie and carrying a new brief case complete with gold name plate, I was completely shocked.
    "Where is my desk?" was his first question. I showed him one of the large computer tables that we used as desks in the back office. He wanted some documentation and brochures on the equipment that we sold so he could learn it. He sat down and started studying and about four hours later asked if we could chat for a couple of minutes. He told me he wanted to go out with me for a few days and see my customers, ask for referrals, and he wanted me to go on his first appointments with him. No problem. He also said that since I was one of the owners of the company that I should dress the part.
    "What?"
    "You can't go on sales appointments with me in jeans and work shoes; you need to keep some dress clothes here in the office that you can change into when I need you."
    I was trying to figure out where I lost control. I was worried about his dress and now he is telling me that I needed to change mine. This was getting weird. But it was obvious that the Wayne I knew in church was not the Wayne sitting here in my office.
    "If you need help shopping, we can go together."
    "I think I can handle it."
    "Good, a nice sports coat, dress shirts -- they don't have to be white -- some sporty ties and nice shoes should do it."
    I got over my shock and, I hate to say it, my resentment, and took his advice.
    We started to work together as a team. Wayne figured it would take a couple of months to get rolling and he was willing to foot his own bills and that is just what he did. We had lots of evening conversations as I helped him configure systems and taught him what was best for each of his prospects. He eagerly learned. We went to conventions together, and his prospect list started to grow. Bill, my original salesman, also perked up and started selling a bit more. Things started to look up.
    During this time I learned more about Wayne. He used to be a partying man. He was a good Coastie, but a bad husband until he became a Christian and started attending our church. Unfortunately, his wife did not like the new Wayne, a more patient guy who did not drink or swear or smoke, so she left him. She took their teenage son and moved to Florida. Wayne was still in touch with them and it was his son who bought him his brief case.
    Wayne kept generating leads and keeping appointments, but after a few weeks I could see that Wayne wanted to reel in his first sale. He was getting anxious and wanted to make something happen. It did not matter if it was big or small.
    It was small. But to Wayne the first one was big. After six weeks he sold a system to a small auto repair place that needed four phones. We would be installing it in a couple of weeks.
    During the two weeks, we started to plan our own trade show in cooperation with a wholesale food distributor whose owners (one being my brother) were the partners in my business. Hotel and restaurant people would be attending. There would be lots of food, and cooking demonstrations from Johnson and Wales University. The manufacturer of our phones sent Doug Stewart, a great factory representative, to work with us. It was a formal affair. The three of us looked sharp in our black tuxes and red cummerbunds. The evening was a great success. During the next two weeks Wayne talked to two major hotels and was sure that he would sell them, too.
    I realized that I had found a very good salesperson who also was now my friend, and I knew that I would soon officially offer him a partnership.
    The day came to install Wayne's sale. He helped me put it in, we trained the staff and they wrote a check for the system. Back in the office I wrote Wayne his first commission check. It was not that much.
    "Well, its small but it will pay for the gas to keep on going." Wayne said.
    I invited him over for dinner with Diane and I, but he declined, saying he was not feeling so well, his medication was not agreeing with him. He thought he would see Arlene that evening. She was a nice lady whose husband had been killed in Vietnam and she and Wayne had recently discovered each other.
    "That crazy ex real estate partner of hers has been calling and making a jerk of himself the last few days," Wayne said. "She's upset about it, so I'm going to go over to her place."
    For some reason I felt strongly that he should come to dinner with me, so I insisted he invite Arlene, but he declined. I became very uneasy and could not understand why.
    That night was an untypical sub freezing cold October night and very late when the phone rang. It was Bill calling me.
    "Derrick, are you awake?" he said.
    "Yes, what's going on?"
    "Derrick, Wayne is dead."
    There was a long pause while I really woke up.
    "Dead! How is that, why?"
    "He was killed and so was Arlene. That partner of hers shot them both. I was heading over there just before it happened but Steve (Bill's son) had a flat and I went to help him."
    I realized that I could have lost both Bill and Wayne. Arlene's real estate partner was upset that she planned to press charges against him for embezzling money out of the apartment complex that they owned together. She was also planning to sell the complex to cover the losses. He was not happy about this. Plus, he was not happy about her relationship with Wayne. The partner was a lot younger than her and, although married himself, had an obsessive crush on her. This was a volatile mix.
    The night he killed them he dressed up like a Ninja, all in black, including a hooded mask. He carried a whole bunch of ninja weapons to a field just behind a canal that ran behind Arlene’s house. This field was the property of my church. Bill's house was two doors down from Arlene's. He laid all his spears, throwing stars, and swords in the grass, loaded his Uzi, waded the canal and headed for Arlene's house. His approach set the neighbor's dogs barking and Wayne opened the door to see what was causing the noise. The guy shot him down, jumped over Wayne's body and went into the house where Arlene was in the living room. Her son and a sleepover friend were upstairs. He shot the living room to pieces, chased Arlene around the first floor of the house, and killed her and then himself. The boys were hiding in the stairwell and of course heard the whole thing.
    The news media was not too sharp and did not know that Wayne worked for me. There were stories on the front page of our local paper and it was the lead story on the local newscasts for about four nights. Not once did anybody contact me and I was very grateful for that oversight.
    I quietly attended Wayne's funeral at Arlene's church along with 300 members of the Coast Guard.
    The next day, as I was cleaning out Wayne's desk and shipping his briefcase to his son, it all sank in. My secretary became so upset that she quit and virtually so did Bill. My brother came to fill in, but that did not help much.
    Wayne sold; I mean I sold the two hotels that I mentioned, along with quite a few other things that Wayne was working on. The business continued for two and a half years until I sold it. I was depressed; I could not see any good coming out of the loss of my friend and partner. It took me a long time to realize that it is not that important for me to understand. God was still in control and loved me; that was all I really needed to know.
    In May of 1985 I almost lost my newborn son and my wife and it was the strength that I received from going through Wayne's death that sustained me and helped me to pray. They both survived.
    Wayne is still someone that I think about a lot. I just recently found the worn-out and faded Polaroid of the three of us at the trade show. Every now and then it does me some good to look at Wayne's smiling bearded face, looking sharp in his red bow tie.
    By the way, I now own a successful communications company that I started in 1991. My wife is my only partner. My first two customers were the same two hotels that Wayne would have sold. Life goes on.
    Derrick
    Doug Stewart, Wayne and myself at the trade show:

  7. -Gramps-
    Number 4. (Maybe the Last Rule!)
    Owning a motor coach is a never-ending learning experience.
    And just when you think you know it all, you find out just how stupid you really are.
    I have learned a lot about my coach, more than I ever wanted to know. I have had to study the mechanics of my engine, my slides, and my power seats as well as learn how it is wired for Surround Sound and cable TV. And, how it is plumbed including the ice maker, the fresh-water tank, the whole coach water filter and on and on. I have had to learn how to drive this big thing, including parking, turning, merging and more.
    I have learned that trees and rocks are harder than fiberglass.
    I have also learned, in no particular order, that:
    It is easy to lose arguments with inanimate objects located at various points inside and outside of my coach.
    Coach dealer mechanics are just like me -- they don't know as much as they think they do, which is why I have had to learn more for myself.
    Don't wait to consult the owner's manual. Read it before you start breaking something you are trying to fix. You might find out it is supposed to work that way!
    Two helping hands are better than one, especially when one of the hands is controlled by a brain other than your own.
    Still, the best helping hand is the one at the end of your own arm.
    Most things that break on a motor coach cost $650 to fix. Having owned two coaches I have had to:
    Replace a bent jack- 650 dollars.
    Replace two slideout toppers: dealer cost 650 dollars (I did it myself with some helping hands for a third of the cost).
    Have a non-square slide out modified so it would actually slide all the way in: 650 dollars.
    I have learned that when your rear end gets in a fight with a coach closet mirror, your rear end will win.
    I have learned that when my big motorhome gets in a fight with my little mailbox, the mailbox will win.
    I have learned that screws are better than staples for keeping things in their place (see above).
    Having friends with the same coach really helps trying to figure out if something is really broke or not (like a hard-to-open pantry and entry door).
    Wal-Mart has everything that the smart camper needs, like lots of beer.
    Don't throw any small plastic or metal things rolling around in your coach away until you find out where they go and what they do. Put them in a special drawer so you can find them later.
    I have learned that the tool you need to fix the problem you have is the tool that is still at the store.
    When emptying your tanks, at least two people will walk over to talk to you.
    I have learned that I find my self looking for the locations of the nearest Wal-Mart and Lowes no matter where my RV is parked at the time.
    Own good tools, not cheap ones. Why waste your money or your CCC?
    I have learned that CCC doesn't actually stand for carrying crappy cargo.
    I have learned that I sometimes have way too much crap; I mean cargo, in my coach.
    A 10-cubic-foot RV refrigerator is way too small when I load it.
    A 10-cubic-foot RV refrigerator is huge when my wife arranges its contents.
    I have learned that a cheap sewer hose and hot sand don't mix.
    I have also learned that a brown sprits bath from a sewer hose with hundreds of pin holes in it may be funny to a couple of people but not to me.
    .
    The day after you empty your overflowing special little parts drawer, you will open a cabinet, or crawl under a seat or something and then you will say, "Oh, that's what that strange little screw was for."
    Protect All really does work when used outside of its container.
    Washing and waxing a coach, aside from making it look nice, is great exercise.
    The day after washing and waxing my coach, I can't lift my arms above my head.
    I have learned that when a rear engine right access panel is open while going down the road, it makes your right turn signal and brake lights pretty much useless.
    All the above things are not so funny when you live through them, but then I think that one of my rules is about being patient. That is much easier to do if you have a well developed sense of humor. So if you don't have one of those, I suggest you learn where to get one!
    Try Wal-Mart, they have everything. Oh, Remember rule number 1!
  8. -Gramps-
    You know the old saying; it's the Journey not the Destination.
    There is a church two doors down from us. The church allows us to hook up our tow in their parking lot and we leave from there. It is quite convenient. When Diane and I have a trip it starts for us the moment we leave the church parking lot. Actually it starts the moment we start packing up the coach, no, it starts the moment we start thinking about THE TRIP.
    The trip, made up of two important parts, the route, and the destination also know as the goal.
    So this is my lead in to:
    Rule number 3:
    Enjoy the View!
    Where are we going?
    What route do we take to get there?
    What do we need to take with us?
    How much time do we have?
    What will it cost?
    These are the questions I am sure we all ask ourselves. Some of us may worry over the answer to one or more questions more than others. Can we spend the money? Can we spend the time?
    Did you notice I used the word worry? Worrying and rving should be mutually exclusive, but it isn't. We worry over the price of gas, the temp in the fridge, the amount of air in the tires, along with lots of other things, including the time it takes to get where we think we want to be. It can be hard to just sit back and enjoy the view.
    The view. The one outside my great big windshield can be wonderful at times. I remember being on the Blue Ridge Parkway coming around Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina one crisp, cool, fall morning. The sky was a fantastic blue and the colors of the trees sucked the breath right out of me! The only thing I could say was Oh God! I meant it. I knew who painted that picture, the same person who painted the sunset over the Albemarle Sound and the light bouncing off the waves at Hatteras Island, the green rolling pastures of the Shenandoah Valley, and the majesty of the Smoky Mountains while heading down I-40. All of these had two things in common. They were made by God and they made me want to slow down and take a longer look.
    At night in the campground I play back the day's windshield views in my head. My mental slideshow. I look at them later after our trip is over and I am back to my daily routine of answering business calls and driving around fixing problems.
    Where am I going with this?
    Owning a motor home is a metaphor for life itself. We all have a destination, but we also only have one journey to get there. I encourage you to sit back, try to relax, and Enjoy the View!
    Remember rule number 1.









  9. -Gramps-
    I am not sure if taking pictures of a Great Horned Owl nesting in a large live oak over our coach made me think of this old FMCA blog entry or not, but if it did then that is okay.
    I wrote it not long after we lost our grandson.  I re-read it myself this morning and I like it so maybe you will too.   Looking Up!
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