Stepping out into the unknown - about to do it again, just not on a viaduct this time.
As I type this, there are a dozen other things I should be doing. In particular, I should be finishing the papers I need to have done by Sunday afternoon. Yes, papers. Or at least finish the other books I still need to read by then. Yes, also plural. But here I am, talking to you.
On Monday morning I begin an adventure. After almost 15 years out of the academic world, with the exception of some conferences and a couple of online classes, I am beginning studies for my Doctor of Ministry degree. And yes, I've already had my "I can't do this, I'm out of my element, who am I kidding" meltdown. And I feel better. Because, let's face it, we all melt down on occasion. Either internally or externally.
And I'm excited. What I have read so far, is good, solid theology. I have already used it in ministry, and will be able to continue to use it. It's the writing of academic papers that has me stymied, but even that will come. The first is done (as in re-read, edited, and tweaked), the others are being worked on as I go. And yeah, I know, I don't have much more time. But they'll get done. I have always been a "last-minute" person. I thrive on the thrill of the deadline, even as it makes me freak out.
I have the support of the church and the church council, which was the most important thing to me. Had they not been receptive of this, I would not have attempted it. I do wish that Hal were still here as I go through this. I miss the theological conversations that we had, even though at times his intensity was too much for me.
One of my church Elders, when I said I was excited and terrified, raised an eyebrow, and reminded me that the Bible says not to be afraid. And he's right. So I'm no longer terrified. As I step onto this proverbial viaduct, I am no longer afraid.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
Thursday, July 26, 2018
Fear and Fear Not
I just realized I have not blogged in over a year. Truth is, I have done a couple of posts but only saved them as drafts as they were things I needed to get out but too private to make public. Maybe later.
I was thinking this morning about fear, particularly about fear of stepping out to do something that might cause us harm.
And thought about the Salisbury Viaduct on the Great Allegheny Passage. If you don't live here, let me share some basic facts: The Great Allegheny Passage Rails-to-Trails includes what was the longest bridge on the Western Maryland Railway. It's a trestle bridge, almost 2,000 feet in length and about 100 feet high. Those two things kept me off the viaduct for the first few years we lived here.
The first encounter I had with it (other than mindlessly driving under it countless times), Hal and I had decided that rather than leave the station on the trail, we'd drive up to Johnny Popper Road and start there. Well, he started. I took one look at the length of the bridge with nothing but 100-year-old trestles below it, and firmly planted my feet on solid ground. Nope. Big old nopity-nope-nope. Hal tried. He told me how safe it was - I didn't care. He pointed out all the other people going past us - I didn't care. He raised an eyebrow at me when two little kids went on it with their bike and told me THEY weren't afraid - I didn't care. He said he was going. I told him to enjoy, I'd be waiting when he got back. And he went across, and I waited. Fuming just a little bit, but that was my problem. Do you know how long it takes someone to walk 4,000 feet? He came back, told me about the old cemetery on the other side (he knew I have a weakness for cool old cemeteries) - I didn't care.
And for a while, we avoided that part of the trail. But there were times that he wanted to go that way. Sometimes I'd try. Sometimes I'd get to the first few feet. But if I walked too slowly, if I hesitated, he would keep walking and I would let my fear take over and turn back. Sometimes I'd stay home and tell him to enjoy. Because of my fear of heights. Actually my fear of the bridge collapsing and me having nothing to hold onto as I plummeted to the ground. Irrational, I know. But aren't most fears irrational?
Then he wanted to show Katherine. So we went. I went as far as the edge, and told them to enjoy. Through some cajoling, I agreed to walk out. I believe I may have said something on the order of, "Ok, I'll go, but I won't like it." And I went. In the very middle, with Hal on one side and Katherine on the other, looking down at the center of the trail. The whole way. No amount of "How beautiful" or "Look at that" could get me to look and see how high above anything we actually were. I was on the viaduct, and that was enough. And I didn't like it. I endured it. And then I asked where he was going to pick me up when they went back to get the car. But I walked back, still looking at theground pavement. And I missed it all.
Eventually, I went out. On the side, not in the middle. And actually looking at the scenery around - and below - us. That first time, when I walked across and lived to tell the tale, broke my fear. And that was all it took. Ok, that and a little bit of "Who's braver, Connie or a 5-year-old" teasing, and I didn't want my fear to transfer to my grandchildren when Hal wanted to take them out on the bridge. Kids are naturally brave, but our attitudes can instill fear, so I needed to be able to not pass my fear to them.
And it was breathtakingly - in a good way - beautiful. Yes, still a little scary. It's weird to be above the treetops. Not natural. But beautiful.
Fear keeps us from so much beauty. We plant our feet firmly on whatever ground we decide is solid, and refuse to risk safety for the possibility of something better. We choose the known, and never realize that what may be just around the corner might be so much more. We plod through life, looking down at the path we have chosen (or has been chosen by someone else for us), so intent on getting to our "destination" - a degree, success in our career, retirement, the other side of the viaduct - that we forget to look up and see the beauty.
And it's true that sometimes when we step out, we will fall and get hurt. Sometimes we attempt things that don't work out...but we learn from all of those things. Sometimes we learn more from our mistakes than from the things that come easy to us. But if we don't try, we will never know how things might have turned out.
Let's stop living in fear. Let's live in anticipation of what is out there for us. Let's take in all that the world has to offer, and offer ourselves back to a world that needs the unique, individual beauty that each of us has to give.
I was thinking this morning about fear, particularly about fear of stepping out to do something that might cause us harm.
And thought about the Salisbury Viaduct on the Great Allegheny Passage. If you don't live here, let me share some basic facts: The Great Allegheny Passage Rails-to-Trails includes what was the longest bridge on the Western Maryland Railway. It's a trestle bridge, almost 2,000 feet in length and about 100 feet high. Those two things kept me off the viaduct for the first few years we lived here.
The first encounter I had with it (other than mindlessly driving under it countless times), Hal and I had decided that rather than leave the station on the trail, we'd drive up to Johnny Popper Road and start there. Well, he started. I took one look at the length of the bridge with nothing but 100-year-old trestles below it, and firmly planted my feet on solid ground. Nope. Big old nopity-nope-nope. Hal tried. He told me how safe it was - I didn't care. He pointed out all the other people going past us - I didn't care. He raised an eyebrow at me when two little kids went on it with their bike and told me THEY weren't afraid - I didn't care. He said he was going. I told him to enjoy, I'd be waiting when he got back. And he went across, and I waited. Fuming just a little bit, but that was my problem. Do you know how long it takes someone to walk 4,000 feet? He came back, told me about the old cemetery on the other side (he knew I have a weakness for cool old cemeteries) - I didn't care.
And for a while, we avoided that part of the trail. But there were times that he wanted to go that way. Sometimes I'd try. Sometimes I'd get to the first few feet. But if I walked too slowly, if I hesitated, he would keep walking and I would let my fear take over and turn back. Sometimes I'd stay home and tell him to enjoy. Because of my fear of heights. Actually my fear of the bridge collapsing and me having nothing to hold onto as I plummeted to the ground. Irrational, I know. But aren't most fears irrational?
Then he wanted to show Katherine. So we went. I went as far as the edge, and told them to enjoy. Through some cajoling, I agreed to walk out. I believe I may have said something on the order of, "Ok, I'll go, but I won't like it." And I went. In the very middle, with Hal on one side and Katherine on the other, looking down at the center of the trail. The whole way. No amount of "How beautiful" or "Look at that" could get me to look and see how high above anything we actually were. I was on the viaduct, and that was enough. And I didn't like it. I endured it. And then I asked where he was going to pick me up when they went back to get the car. But I walked back, still looking at the
Eventually, I went out. On the side, not in the middle. And actually looking at the scenery around - and below - us. That first time, when I walked across and lived to tell the tale, broke my fear. And that was all it took. Ok, that and a little bit of "Who's braver, Connie or a 5-year-old" teasing, and I didn't want my fear to transfer to my grandchildren when Hal wanted to take them out on the bridge. Kids are naturally brave, but our attitudes can instill fear, so I needed to be able to not pass my fear to them.
And it was breathtakingly - in a good way - beautiful. Yes, still a little scary. It's weird to be above the treetops. Not natural. But beautiful.
Fear keeps us from so much beauty. We plant our feet firmly on whatever ground we decide is solid, and refuse to risk safety for the possibility of something better. We choose the known, and never realize that what may be just around the corner might be so much more. We plod through life, looking down at the path we have chosen (or has been chosen by someone else for us), so intent on getting to our "destination" - a degree, success in our career, retirement, the other side of the viaduct - that we forget to look up and see the beauty.
And it's true that sometimes when we step out, we will fall and get hurt. Sometimes we attempt things that don't work out...but we learn from all of those things. Sometimes we learn more from our mistakes than from the things that come easy to us. But if we don't try, we will never know how things might have turned out.
Let's stop living in fear. Let's live in anticipation of what is out there for us. Let's take in all that the world has to offer, and offer ourselves back to a world that needs the unique, individual beauty that each of us has to give.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
Walking in Grief
First of all: this is MY experience with grief. It is not your experience, or your family member's, or your neighbor's, although it may share some of the same paths.
Grief is not a competition. My grief is not harder, or stronger, or deeper, or more enduring, than yours is. There are times that I will be a big ol' blubbering mess and will need you to be the strong one. There are times that I will be the strong one for you to be the b.o.b.mess. And there are times we may both collapse on the floor together, and someone else will need to bring the mop. Here's the thing: there are no gold medals at the end. There's no "being better" at this. And it's a participation trophy none of us want.
It's not a sprint, where we rush to get through all the steps that someone, somewhere, decided that grieving people go through. It's not like grocery shopping, where we race through the aisles, checking off denial, anger, and the rest as we throw them in our cart, hoping that our keytag will get us a discount.
Nor is it a marathon, where we plod along at a steady pace, not paying attention to anything but the track below our feet. Oh, yes, there are some days that we will plod. And some days it's hard to even put the sneakers on our feet...heck, sometimes it's hard to swing our feet off the bed and put them on the floor. But the process itself cannot be merely putting one foot in front of the other for an extended period of time with the goal of "getting to the end" (considering that there is no true end).
Grief - my grief, that is - is more like a walk on a trail.
Regardless of the calendar, it starts in the fall - everything is changing, and not for the better. The days grow colder, grayer. The time change throws off our schedule, and it grows dark too early for an evening stroll. Morning frost chills us through and we find it difficult to catch our breath. Leaves may burst into color on the side of a hill some days, but the rains come and wash them away.
Then comes winter, too cold to walk. The snow covers the trail, the winds or rains rip through even the best coats and boots and longjohns. So we stay inside, bundled in the warmth of familiarity, sheltering ourselves in comfort and insulating ourselves from the stings that are inevitable.
Spring comes, and with it our first tentative steps. The sun peeks out, but the chill is still sometimes too much for us. We may get down the path, away from our shelter, and get caught in a cloudburst - of emotion, of memories, brought by a sight, a scent, a sound - and we take shelter under the nearest tree for protection. Slowly, little by little, we venture further on the trail, and begin to take joy in the little things presented to us - the flowers, the songs of the birds, the berries growing on the side of the trail. But our grief is still there, like a wild animal. On a still day we notice a tree shake; down the hill, a bear scratches its back against the slim trunk. We may yell to scare it away; we may throw the berries we picked onto the trail between it and us as a peace offering; but we are still aware that it may come at us and destroy us, so we slowly retreat, being mindful of its presence and its power. Other days, we may be strolling along, enjoying the day, only to suddenly see several snakes sunning themselves right where we want to walk. We hesitate - it would be so easy to retreat - and then we find a way around the snakes, leaving them in their coils, unsprung and thus causing us no pain. And on days when we have gone further than our strength will allow us to continue, we collapse onto the ground and remain as long as we need.
I don't yet know what the trail in summer is like. I'm still dodging bears and snakes. And sometimes just collapsing.
Grief is not a competition. My grief is not harder, or stronger, or deeper, or more enduring, than yours is. There are times that I will be a big ol' blubbering mess and will need you to be the strong one. There are times that I will be the strong one for you to be the b.o.b.mess. And there are times we may both collapse on the floor together, and someone else will need to bring the mop. Here's the thing: there are no gold medals at the end. There's no "being better" at this. And it's a participation trophy none of us want.
It's not a sprint, where we rush to get through all the steps that someone, somewhere, decided that grieving people go through. It's not like grocery shopping, where we race through the aisles, checking off denial, anger, and the rest as we throw them in our cart, hoping that our keytag will get us a discount.
Nor is it a marathon, where we plod along at a steady pace, not paying attention to anything but the track below our feet. Oh, yes, there are some days that we will plod. And some days it's hard to even put the sneakers on our feet...heck, sometimes it's hard to swing our feet off the bed and put them on the floor. But the process itself cannot be merely putting one foot in front of the other for an extended period of time with the goal of "getting to the end" (considering that there is no true end).
Grief - my grief, that is - is more like a walk on a trail.
Regardless of the calendar, it starts in the fall - everything is changing, and not for the better. The days grow colder, grayer. The time change throws off our schedule, and it grows dark too early for an evening stroll. Morning frost chills us through and we find it difficult to catch our breath. Leaves may burst into color on the side of a hill some days, but the rains come and wash them away.
Then comes winter, too cold to walk. The snow covers the trail, the winds or rains rip through even the best coats and boots and longjohns. So we stay inside, bundled in the warmth of familiarity, sheltering ourselves in comfort and insulating ourselves from the stings that are inevitable.
Spring comes, and with it our first tentative steps. The sun peeks out, but the chill is still sometimes too much for us. We may get down the path, away from our shelter, and get caught in a cloudburst - of emotion, of memories, brought by a sight, a scent, a sound - and we take shelter under the nearest tree for protection. Slowly, little by little, we venture further on the trail, and begin to take joy in the little things presented to us - the flowers, the songs of the birds, the berries growing on the side of the trail. But our grief is still there, like a wild animal. On a still day we notice a tree shake; down the hill, a bear scratches its back against the slim trunk. We may yell to scare it away; we may throw the berries we picked onto the trail between it and us as a peace offering; but we are still aware that it may come at us and destroy us, so we slowly retreat, being mindful of its presence and its power. Other days, we may be strolling along, enjoying the day, only to suddenly see several snakes sunning themselves right where we want to walk. We hesitate - it would be so easy to retreat - and then we find a way around the snakes, leaving them in their coils, unsprung and thus causing us no pain. And on days when we have gone further than our strength will allow us to continue, we collapse onto the ground and remain as long as we need.
I don't yet know what the trail in summer is like. I'm still dodging bears and snakes. And sometimes just collapsing.
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Of Mice and Cats
As nature abhors a vacuum, cats abhor a shut door...which is why mine get so excited when I open the door to the basement. As in, yelling "WooHoo!" and high-fiving each other excited. Ok, maybe not. But if cats COULD yell "WooHoo" and high-five each other, they would.
So, this morning, I went down to the basement to move a shelf. This entailed moving cases of canned food, checking the expiration dates,throwing out the expired ones shrugging when I saw some have expired (oh, well, I'll try them anyway), moving the shelf, and replacing the food. While I was at it, I broke down some cardboard, and gathered up some grocery bags, double-bagged them and set them aside to take to the food pantry on Friday, and realized that the mouse traps need replaced (we use the glue-type)...no mice, just dust, spiders, and cat hair (because they're nosy little buggers). And the cats were in their glory. I was in one room, and they had the run of the basement. I finished what I was doing, brushed some cobwebs off Angelica, and headed up the stairs, leaving the door open so they could take their time exploring.
About ten minutes later I was eating lunch and heard a plaintive mew...an unfamiliar mew...a mew that set me on edge as I saw Angelica coming up the hall from the direction of the basement door...with something in her mouth. Ifreaked out steeled myself for her to bring me the lovely "gift" - when I realized that while she, indeed, did have a mouse in her mouth, it was a cloth-covered catnip mouse that her kitty-buddy Bianca had left on her last visit (not intentionally, mind you, Bianca closely guards her toys, except when she hides them and forgets where) (which is not difficult, considering how small the brains of cats are).
Crisis averted - this time. *sigh*
So, this morning, I went down to the basement to move a shelf. This entailed moving cases of canned food, checking the expiration dates,
About ten minutes later I was eating lunch and heard a plaintive mew...an unfamiliar mew...a mew that set me on edge as I saw Angelica coming up the hall from the direction of the basement door...with something in her mouth. I
Crisis averted - this time. *sigh*
Friday, September 16, 2016
It's the Little Things
I was driving to the chiropractor's office yesterday, out on the Garrett Shortcut. As I drove, I was looking at the weeds wildflowers on the side of the road and was taken back in time and place...
...to Somerton, Ohio, where Hal and I first lived together as husband and wife. We were hosting a gathering of pastors in our home, and Hal had started the ribs. He offered to go to the store to get flowers. Now, google maps would tell you that it takes 16 minutes to get from where we lived in Somerton to the nearest grocery store (Riesbeck's, in Barnesville to the north). They would lie. Because inevitably, there would be Amish buggies on the road - the curvy, hilly, can't-pass-a-buggy-without-risking-life-and-limb-even-though-the-driver-is-motioning-you-around-because-you-can't-see-what's-coming-around-the-curve-or-over-the-hill road. I will digress as I remember the morning I got behind TWELVE buggies on the road headed south. So, it was usually 20-25 minutes at the best, then time in the store (even though the flowers were usually at the checkout line), IF THEY HAD ANY FLOWERS LEFT AT ALL, then 20-25 minutes home. Because the florist would have been closed at this particular hour and wehad failed to call ahead were too darned cheap/broke to buy actual FLORIST flowers at the time. We were both still in seminary, I was working part-time at my churches, he was earning student-pastor pay.
So Hal left to go to the store. About fifteen minutes later he returned with a big grin on his face and a plastic grocery bag he laid on the table. Withweeds wildflowers, roots and all, that he had stopped on the side of the road and grabbed. I tilted my head and looked at him like he was nuts, and saw his face begin to cloud over. Realizing that my attitude was hurting him, I grinned, shook my head, and told him that he must have a lot of faith in my flower-arranging abilities. He grinned again, the clouds left, and said that he believed in me. I grabbed a bowl and floral foam, then sorted through the Queen Anne's Lace, cornflowers, daisies, and brown-eyed Susans, among others, that he had pulled from a farmer's field on the side of the road, trimmed them, shook off the dirt, ants, and spiders, and put together an arrangement for our table.
And that day, which I had not thought of in years, came rushing back to me on the shortcut yesterday. The beauty that Hal brought into my life was not something that money could buy. It was about being happy with what was right there, free for the taking. The little inside jokes, the eye contact across a crowded room, the feel of his breath on the back of my neck as he held me...the having to turn away because the smell of my breath after I ate garlic bothered him (you would think a guy NAMED Garlick...but I digress again)...
And I almost destroyed it. I almost got so wrapped up in my understanding that he would be coming in with BOUGHT flowers, that were actually free of roots, spiders, or ants, that I almost blew off the beauty in the gift he brought me. The gift of his time, in the middle of cooking a meal, that he took to go and get me flowers to make the table pretty. The gift of his vision that those rag-tag flowers were more beautiful - and plentiful - than any he could have bought at the store. The gift of his trust that I would accept his gift in the spirit it was given. The gift of his trust that I would work with these wildflowers.
Hal gave me a lot of weird gifts over the years - and I gave him a lot of ones that left him scratching his head, too. It's the little things, folks. The free, inexpensive, and day-to-day "weeds" that are all around us. Don't overlook them. Don't belittle them. Don't take them for granted. Welcome them. Embrace them. Celebrate them!
...to Somerton, Ohio, where Hal and I first lived together as husband and wife. We were hosting a gathering of pastors in our home, and Hal had started the ribs. He offered to go to the store to get flowers. Now, google maps would tell you that it takes 16 minutes to get from where we lived in Somerton to the nearest grocery store (Riesbeck's, in Barnesville to the north). They would lie. Because inevitably, there would be Amish buggies on the road - the curvy, hilly, can't-pass-a-buggy-without-risking-life-and-limb-even-though-the-driver-is-motioning-you-around-because-you-can't-see-what's-coming-around-the-curve-or-over-the-hill road. I will digress as I remember the morning I got behind TWELVE buggies on the road headed south. So, it was usually 20-25 minutes at the best, then time in the store (even though the flowers were usually at the checkout line), IF THEY HAD ANY FLOWERS LEFT AT ALL, then 20-25 minutes home. Because the florist would have been closed at this particular hour and we
So Hal left to go to the store. About fifteen minutes later he returned with a big grin on his face and a plastic grocery bag he laid on the table. With
And that day, which I had not thought of in years, came rushing back to me on the shortcut yesterday. The beauty that Hal brought into my life was not something that money could buy. It was about being happy with what was right there, free for the taking. The little inside jokes, the eye contact across a crowded room, the feel of his breath on the back of my neck as he held me...the having to turn away because the smell of my breath after I ate garlic bothered him (you would think a guy NAMED Garlick...but I digress again)...
And I almost destroyed it. I almost got so wrapped up in my understanding that he would be coming in with BOUGHT flowers, that were actually free of roots, spiders, or ants, that I almost blew off the beauty in the gift he brought me. The gift of his time, in the middle of cooking a meal, that he took to go and get me flowers to make the table pretty. The gift of his vision that those rag-tag flowers were more beautiful - and plentiful - than any he could have bought at the store. The gift of his trust that I would accept his gift in the spirit it was given. The gift of his trust that I would work with these wildflowers.
Hal gave me a lot of weird gifts over the years - and I gave him a lot of ones that left him scratching his head, too. It's the little things, folks. The free, inexpensive, and day-to-day "weeds" that are all around us. Don't overlook them. Don't belittle them. Don't take them for granted. Welcome them. Embrace them. Celebrate them!
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Camping in Sorrow
My dad died when I was 35. Shortly after his passing, I realized that I was depressed (duh). I asked a couple of people who knew me well, to give me a few months and check back with me. Both of them took seriously my need for sorrow, and took seriously my knowledge that I could not forever continue in the depths of the dark woods I was in. Both checked in on me periodically, not pushing me to come out of my sadness but walking with me.
It is the words of one that comes back to me now. Over coffee, about 6 months after my dad's passing, this friend asked if I had pulled the stakes up yet. I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, asking what he meant. He smiled, and said that I'd been camping out in my sorrow - and that was ok - but it was not ok to permanently move in. He asked again if I had pulled up my stakes yet - my tent stakes - and after talking for a while, we ascertained together that I had started to pull them up, but had not completely broken camp yet. And he walked with me a while longer, helping me to break camp and move out of the dark woods I was in.
Fitting, I guess, for this season. I am camping out in my sorrow. And folks, that's ok...for now. I'm not moving there permanently - but if you want to check in on me periodically, that's ok. That would probably be more than ok. In return, I promise I'll walk with you - or just sit with you - as you will allow me. Just remember that you can't pull my tent stakes up for me. Only I can, and I will, when the time is right.
It is the words of one that comes back to me now. Over coffee, about 6 months after my dad's passing, this friend asked if I had pulled the stakes up yet. I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, asking what he meant. He smiled, and said that I'd been camping out in my sorrow - and that was ok - but it was not ok to permanently move in. He asked again if I had pulled up my stakes yet - my tent stakes - and after talking for a while, we ascertained together that I had started to pull them up, but had not completely broken camp yet. And he walked with me a while longer, helping me to break camp and move out of the dark woods I was in.
Fitting, I guess, for this season. I am camping out in my sorrow. And folks, that's ok...for now. I'm not moving there permanently - but if you want to check in on me periodically, that's ok. That would probably be more than ok. In return, I promise I'll walk with you - or just sit with you - as you will allow me. Just remember that you can't pull my tent stakes up for me. Only I can, and I will, when the time is right.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Sabbatical trip, part one
Hal and I left on the morning of June 1, him celebrating his retirement and me finishing my Sabbatical.
Unable after his heart attack of 2012 to crank up our pop-up camper, and me unable to do it after my wrist surgery, we had sold it. When we had not received the major grant for which we had applied for the Sabbatical, he hand-built a ledge vardo on the bed of a utility trailer that we have owned since Nebraska. He had looked at ideas online but had come up with the design and played with it, changing things along the way. His daughter, Katherine, painted symbols of faith on the outside, and I got out my sewing machine for the first time in a long time and, flying by the seat of my pants, sewed curtains, and then I crocheted two afghans...finishing one along the way. With the help of a dear friend, he finished it
Oh, that vardo! We had more conversations along the road with people who came driving up to us in parking lots, rest stops, campgrounds. I had thought he was nuts (after all, folks, he married me, he couldn't have been all there), but have fallen in love with our tiny little home-away-from-home. In Kentucky, a mulejumper (more on that in another blog post) and his wife prayed with us in a parking lot. At a gas station, two ladies pulled up and asked if they could take a picture of our "chicken coop" - we both busted out laughing and explained it was a camper! We had a man in his 70's come up and offer to buy it in a Walmart parking lot in Wyoming - his grandchildren rode the rodeo circuit, and he was looking for something that exact size to take with him. People asked Hal for details and for instructions, and he always took the time to explain what he had done, what he had tried that didn't work, and patiently showed them what they asked to see.
We lost our first set of mattresses because the front window was not as waterproof as we had thought, and ended up leaving them in OK with a friend of mine (that I had not seen since fifth grade) for her to dispose of, and buying a new mattress in Wicheta, KS. Not a souvenir I had ever anticipated buying! And I'll admit it was a little unnerving the two times that someone pulled up alongside us and motioned to roll the windows down to tell us the back door was open - thankfully we had lost nothing either time. The house-door deadbolt lock had loosened from the vibrations (remember, utility trailer, no shocks or struts) so we ended up putting a hasp lock with a padlock on it, after which it never jiggled loose again.
We visited along the way, from PA to my sisters and their families in Mount Olive, NC - we celebrated our fourteenth wedding anniversary
From there, we went to a campground in Paducah, KY where we were serenaded by cicadas and bullfrogs. We accidentally crossed the Illinois border and turned around asap as we were carrying firearms - legally in most states but not IL - and did not realize that we were crossing the border until it was too late. Next was a campground in MO that advertised bathrooms and wifi and had neither, but did have a critter skittering across our roof in the middle of the night. Around the time the critter woke us, we heard a flush - of a toilet that was obviously NOT hooked up to the sewer hook-up right...and were very grateful to have annointing balm - which is good not only for healing annointing, but for annointing the upper lip and praying that the smell of the raw sewage would be alleviated by the soothing scents of the balm. This was where we discovered that the mattresses were "a little damp," but had no choice but to sleep on them. Well, that, or find a non-scary motel in the middle of nowhere (seriously, this campground was the stuff horror movies were made of and we were too tired to go on).
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