In the last month or so since I’ve written, Superhusband and
I have attempted to find out what happens when practicality and disciplined
scheduling are thrown to the wind. What’s left may not be pretty, but it’s possible. And sometimes, it’s awesome.
Exhibit A: Superhusband wanted a camper. And he wanted it like, yesterday. I don’t
know about all of you and your super spouses, but mine has a singularity of
purpose like none other. When he has
honed in on his target, there is no time for delay, nay, even slight
hesitation. It’s on. So we searched far and wide for a suitable camper that had
toilet and shower capabilities, possibly more floor space than our beloved
caravan in Australia, and was light enough to be pulled by our non-goose-necked
equipped truck with only a V6. And it
had to be in our budget. We drove to
Corinth. We drove to Huntsville. We drove to Decatur. We drove back to
Huntsville. But every locale turned up a dry creek bed of hopelessness instead
of the lush, dreamy camper of our desire, and all were $2,000 outside our
budget. So, finally, just deciding that we WERE going to get a camper, and it
WAS worth it to drive an insane amount of miles to get it at the right price, I
widened the search. Turns out that Knoxville, Tennessee is the Mecca of campers
for sale at reasonable prices. There were several options which looked
promising. We called on Monday
afternoon, made sure the ones we wanted were still available, and by Monday
night at 9pm we were on the road on our 5-hour-away adventure. Practical? Not a bit. But one thing I HAVE learned about marriage
is that there just aren’t enough chances for the two of you to be a
swashbuckling, rip-roaring, united crime-fighting team; so even if the “crime”
you’re fighting is over-pricing of campers, you take it.
At 1am Tuesday morning, we pulled into a Days Inn about 30
minutes outside of Knoxville. We caught a few winks, and got up in the morning
to hunt our prey. The first stop held
the cheapest camper with a full bath; it also held the biggest disappointment.
Let me just pause here and let you know that if you are ever looking at a
recreational vehicle and you find a bald, cammo-wearing mannequin on the
toilet, run away. Preferably drive.
But the second stop, an hour and a half past our first one,
turned out to be the bees knees. After
some clever negotiation of both country roads and posted prices, we lumbered
down a winding road with our pristine 1998 Jayco Eagle Lite 30th
Anniversary Edition with air-conditioner, separate fridge and freezer, full
bath, and room to sleep 5. The only things we didn’t have were tail lights or
tow mirrors. That’s right, after all our
checking up on the specs, we forgot to ask what the towing connection was, and
now we had to figure out how and where to get an adapter before
dark…approximately two hours from the time we paid for it.
Again, there was swashbuckling. With Superhusband inside Auto Zone trying to
figure out what connections we could rig to get us legal with the tail lights,
I sat clench-jawed in the truck googling and calling every automotive store
within a 15-mile radius. In half an hour we were in at WalMart, and half an
hour after that we were back in the truck in the parking lot, and on the phone
with a lovely Progressive agent who helped us secure insurance sturdy enough to
drive it home across state lines. We pulled out at 9pm and headed toward
Florence. At 4am we pulled the truck and
new camper into the driveway of our fixer-upper (about a block away from our
apartment) grabbed necessities, and walked back to our apartment. It was then we found that our
air-conditioning in the apartment was out.
I mean 91 degrees out. At 4. A.
M. You can only imagine the day we had following. But, really, our mission was victorious;
swashbuckling and mayhem often go together.
Exhibit B: We went to NASCAR. Yes, us. Two poet souls from opposite ends of the
earth, well-traveled, well-spoken, capable of producing sonnets and odes…..yet
inextricably drawn to the gut-busting, gas-guzzling, mullet-wearing epicenter
of NASCAR, Daytona Beach, Florida. The first couple of days were spent
strolling along the beach and watching July 4th fireworks displays
in full panoramic view from a drawbridge over the North Causeway in New Smyrna
Beach. Absolutely lovely. Then there was race day.
We carefully packed our “legal” items into our approved
soft-sided cooler bag and set Tom Tom to the free parking lot for the speedway.
We got there in plenty of time, and parked uneventfully in lot 12. From there it was a bus ride to the speedway,
a walk up the most gi-norm-ous pedestrian bridge I’ve ever seen, and into the
stadium. We ate our packed lunch,
trolled the snack counters, and found our seats in plenty of time for the
Cheryl Crow concert. Then, the
unthinkable. I went to check the time,
only to find that my phone was gone. I mean GONE. I froze, the hideous panic
creeping from my abdomen up to my pale face and out to flailing, helpless
limbs. We decided to check Superhusband’s phone to see if we could call mine,
and eerily we had just missed a call from my phone. Thousands of thoughts of espionage,
entrapment, extortion and bribery flooded my paranoid mind. Who had it?
And what did they want? (Of
course this is just another example of my vivid imagination meeting with my delusions
of grandeur. My phone is nice, but it’s
not worth a felony charge.) I called back and spoke to a voice that clearly
“wutn from ‘round here” as the locals would say, but he said he had the phone,
that he had found it in the parking lot, and that they were still there; we
could come and get it.
The walk back over the bridge, to the buses, and back to the
parking lot was a hot, dirty walk of shame for me. I was relieved and terrified, and so embarrassed
that I was dragging Superhusband back out of the stadium with his hurt knee and
sweating forehead. We trudged angrily,
discussing whether or not we needed a police escort, or if it was the speedway
staff who had found the phone, hence why they couldn’t leave the parking
lot. When we finally reached the free
parking section, we headed straight for the information booth—to no avail. We then called my phone again and discovered
it was just a civilian (but a civilian with a terse Northern accent, which
while saying nice things, seemed abrupt or just devilishly fast. The terror mounted. He said he was parked
inside lot 13 under a garnet tent. After
having to explain to Superhusband what “garnet” meant, we sped around looking
for any signs of such a tent. Every time
we called my phone for more instructions, it indeed seemed that we were just
being taken for a ride, and this person was having fun getting us lost. Finally, he just said, “Meet me by the
port-a-potties in section 12. We made a
beeline.
We arrived there about the same time as he did. A young man, say 22, and looking like he
could put on a flat cap and star in “Newsies.” He introduced himself as
Guido. That’s right, Guido. He said his “auntie”
had found the phone and told him to find the owners. We thanked him profusely. I’m even kind of
sorry I didn’t give him any kind of reward, since he didn’t ask for one. But the whole exchange took only a moment,
and after thanking him, we rushed back to the buses to get to the concert. After that, while really neat to hear and see
40 racecars barreling toward you at ridiculous speeds, everything else was
anticlimactic.
But, hey, it’s “no risk no reward,” right? We have a
camper. We experienced NASCAR. We met
Guido, all by the grace of God and a willing spirit. And I hope, by the grace of God, to continue
my willingness to do the impractical in search of the fantastic.
And as God often does, I was given a biblical example of
willingness and openness this week in my readings. This one comes from 2 Kings 4:1-7. I’ll quote it here for speed of access.
The wife of a man from the company of
the prophets cried out to Elisha, “Your servant my husband is dead, and you
know that he revered the LORD. But now his creditor is coming to take my two
boys as his slaves.”
Elisha replied to her, “How can I help
you? Tell me, what do you have in your house?”
“Your servant has nothing there at all,
“she said, “except a little oil.”
Elisha said, “Go around and ask all
your neighbors for empty jars. Don’t ask
for just a few. Then go inside and shut the
door behind you and your sons. Pour oil
into all the jars, and as each is filled, put it to one side.”
She left him and afterward shut the
door behind her and her sons. They
brought the jars to her and she kept pouring.
When all the jars were full, she said to her son, “Bring me another one.”
But he replied, “There is not a jar left.” Then the oil stopped flowing. She
went and told the man of God, and he said, “Go, sell the oil and pay your
debts. You and your sons can live on
what is left.”
Great, right? And
chocked full of wisdom! God will use what you have, if you surrender all you
have. Ask and it shall be given. Obey what is asked of you and receive the
promises…but my favorite part is the admonition of Elisha “Don’t ask for just a
few.” That’s what I do so often. I proverbially “Pray for rain but don’t take
my umbrella.” In the instance of the widow, the miracle lasted as long as her
preparation. She was blessed with oil to the measure that she asked for jars.
And so are we. Our willingness and openness, and in a sense, our emptiness,
must precede the blessing.
I will give you one, final episode of our week which sort of
relates, and is sort of just an excuse to tell you another story.
For weeks Superhusband and I have been saying “When we get
that tree down, we can…” insert appropriate chore here, like “map out our
extension,” “clean the back of the house,” “really start building.” So, on
Wednesday of this past week, at around 3 in the afternoon, I googled “tree
removal” and called the first add I saw that said “free estimates.” I was
answered by a somewhat harried sounding woman who took my details and said “He’ll
have to call you back.” Who “he” was, I
didn’t know, but I hoped it would be a small-time, for-hire lumberjack. A few minutes
later “she” called back and said “he” might be able to come over this
afternoon, and could I give her directions.
The exchanges were made, and after mentioning the words “free estimate”
several times and getting no disagreements, I told Superhusband we might have a
tree guy that day.
The events of the next few moments were splendid. A rusty, formerly red, raised roof Chevy van
pulled up and honked. Out popped a
60-something man and two teenage boys who looked like they had been dragged out
of a tree stand just for the occasion.
The man loped up to me, shook my hand, and introduced himself as
Wendell. (I have a whole diatribe on
names of people that I would love to share here, but this is getting too
intricate. Suffice to say, men named
Wendell are audacious, rowdy, and bold in my experience.)
As I was motioning to Superhusband to come and shake hands,
Wendell looks at me and exclaims “WHAT is that?” I informed him it was the
radio. He then added, “I thought it was war drums or somethin’.” Now I don’t
know what you do when someone says something so completely ludicrous, but my
impulse (happily, most of the time a resisted impulse) is to agree with them
immediately. I actually checked out of
the conversation going on and began crafting my desired reply; “Yes, Wendell,
those are war drums. We are a proud
people. You have been asked here to sacrifice the sacred tree….” At this point
I had to rejoin planet earth and try to conceal my giggles at my hypothetical
answer.
Wendell sized us up, sized up the tree, took a seat on an
upturned 5 gallon bucket and said, “Well, what’s it worth to you?” I pulled a
figure out of my head, and it was met with only modest rebuke. But when we told him we didn’t want him to
cut it into chunks, but leave it for us in long pieces, he said “All right.
Move this pickup.” And he was set in
action. It was so quick I had to get Superhusband to run after him to make sure
he meant to proceed right then. To which Wendell, apt to his name, replied “We’re
burnin’ daylight standin’ here talkin’ bout it.” Well, okay then. I went to get cash for the men at our local
bank, and by the time I got back the tree was on the ground. It just goes to
show that when you’re ready for anything, anything can happen.
So that’s us. We are constantly conspiring to schedule,
plan, map, etc., but in some small way I like the fluidity of our days. We are at once more vulnerable to wasting
time yet more ready to take on a challenge which requires full attention. And I know that it will not last
forever. Jobs, possibly children, and
other restraints will eventually creep in structure our moments. But for now, we’re gathering jars and seeing
what happens.
