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Being 15 and learning to drive cannot
arrive soon enough for most teenagers.
Getting that driver’s permit in
the mail is a pre-declaration of independence
and freedom, or so I thought. In 1979,
my parents had decided to buy a new Pace
Arrow gas motor home which at the time
I did not embrace. I was a kid who preferred
spending summers playing basketball and
swimming – not traveling across
the country to visit relatives. My father
saw it as great transportation and fun
for our family, but I saw it robbing time
from what remained of my innocent youth.
Only now as an adult do I understand that
those were the best of times. Who would
have believed the adventures we shared
in that motor home would transform me
into the RV’er I am today. |
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| The
last time my wife and I visited
Mount Rushmore it was in the
summer of 1999. We were expecting
our first child, not due until
the following February. Seeing
one of our nations greatest
memorials located in the heart
of... |
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| Being
15 and learning to drive cannot
arrive soon enough for most
teenagers. Getting that driver’s
permit in the mail is a pre-declaration
of indepen-dence and freedom,
or so I thought. In 1979,
my parents had decided to
buy a new... |
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When
my dad first brought home this 25’ “beast”
( as I called it ), I was not impressed. To
a teenager with an I.Q. equal to the air pressure
in his basketball, it appeared huge and awkward.
My admiration and thoughts were spent on Camaros,
TransAms, and sporty pickups – and not
a penny more. Windows were abundant all around
the coach prompting my dad’s encouragement
for me to learn the art of window tinting, which
I became rather skilled doing. The interior
colors of brown and orange were something one
could only describe after awaking from a bad
nightmare – in reflection it was hideous.
But, the 1970’s also gave us avocado green
appliances and consumers loved it. Ours did
not have a bedroom as most models do today.
Instead, it had an open floor plan with two
sofas, two barrel chairs, kitchen, bathroom,
pilot and co-pilot chairs in the cockpit. It
would be a lie to say I didn’t have fun
logging in dozens of hours in the pilot’s
chair at 15. It could seat 12 people, and it
did on many occasions.
Our excursions included snow ski trips, bass
fishing adventures, football games, and as mentioned
– long distance traveling to see relatives.
I will always remember the trip we successfully
completed in June, 1980. My mother’s oldest
brother, Son (as he is called), and his family
reside in Yakima, Washington and have well,
forever. Every five years he and his clan would
fly to Texas to visit the large army of my mom’s
kin still assembled there. The summer of 1980
was our chance to pop in on them – a first.
I cannot recall every moment of my childhood
or being a teenager, but the trip we made to
Washington from Texas is unforgettable. On the
first leg of our trip we decided to leave in
the afternoon and drive through the night. After
much pleading, my older brother Todd, and I
convinced my parents we could handle most of
the driving. I could see utter fear in the faces
of passing traffic as the first glance led to
second and third looks, usually the second snap
leading to whiplash. What others saw were a
barely 16 and 17 year old in command of the
beast heading somewhere west.
The second day of the trip began when my parents
awoke from their slumber to discover Todd and
I managed us to Sante Fe, New Mexico during
the night, with Todd behind the wheel and my
hands on the map. Having second doubts and repeating
internally the old saying “what he doesn’t
know can’t hurt him”, my father
decided he better do all the driving from now
on. I think my little sister Tamara was relieved.
Dad led us into Colorado where we were introduced
to the Rocky Mountains, Durango, Silverton,
and Ouray – a true postcard drive. Two
days and several rolls of film later, we crossed
into Utah and inspected the Great Salt Lake
for the first time. Eager to get to Yakima,
our Pace Arrow shot through Idaho and into Oregon.
From there we crossed the Columbia River on
I-82 and then headed into Washington. Like most
of our trips, sightseeing and taking in the
local flavors were all top priorities but as
the trip aged, I remember just wanting to arrive.
I can still see my Aunt Jo and Uncle Son’s
expression when we blew the hatch and emerged
from our 2,000 mile journey. Little did they
know my parents schemed to arrange our stop
the prior night at a campground located only
a few hours from Yakima. Before leaving that
morning we had showered, shaved, and dressed
in our best. Even the beast got a wash. My mother’s
sister–in-law expected to see five grizzly,
rank, and indigent family members appear from
the remains of our tired Pace Arrow. I think
she was really tickled and relieved her house
guests for the next week were not the models
for Randy Quaid’s rv’ing character
in the National Lampoon’s “Christmas
Vacation” movie.
The highlights of our visit included tours to
Mt. Rainier, Olympia, and Seattle. My favorite
memories are having lunch atop Seattle’s
Space Needle restaurant and then later gorging
on pizza at a local Shakey’s where we
discovered a barber shop quartet in the house.
My dad enjoyed their sounds so much that he
bribed them with encores of free pizza and beverages
to sing all evening. As hard as he worked to
buy this motor home for us, my father deserved
to have the most fun that night. I am glad we
were on that ride.
The most chilling memory of the trip was witnessing
the destructive power of volcanoes. On May 18,
1980, around 8:30 AM on Sunday morning history
recorded the eruption of Mt. St. Helens and
the massive devastation which followed. When
we arrived at Mt. Rainier National Park a month
later the snow, which should have been brilliant
white, was still covered gray with volcanic
ash. With the beauty of its luster diminished,
our day on the mountain turned gloomy as our
emotions had taken their first detour. As good
as Mother Nature gets, the scene reaffirmed
she can also be very bad. I had seen enough.
We said our tearful goodbyes pledging to return
someday. My parents knew the opportunities for
our entire family returning were eroding. Todd
and I were getting older and engaged in more
activities in and out of high school. My sister
would no doubt follow our busy roads we had
taken. As we drove away, no one amongst us had
regrets. We were only a family of five, but
ten hands were held high waving a big Texas
goodbye.
Our return trip home was no less exciting, but
I have to admit I was anxious to get back to
summer time swimming and playing basketball.
Living in the Texas weather my entire life I
was speechless when in early July the road home
gave us a gift – while camping at Yellowstone
National Park it snowed. That same summer, little
did anyone know our Lone Star state was about
to be dealt a then record setting 69 days of
100 degree plus heat. Some folks talk about
the weather, but that summer I got to live it.
Parked back in its driveway, the beast was given
a bath and brief rest. As long as we owned it,
vacations and get-aways were frequent and always
fun. Soon we bought a boat and gave our motor
home a tail. Once again it was my duty to make
older heads turn up when they saw a teenager
handling the trailered boat like a pro. My proudest
moments were when my dad often allowed me to
back the motor home and boat onto a boat ramp.
He would take care of starting our boat, and
I was given responsibility for everything else.
It didn’t matter whether I caught any
fish or not, but rather my happiness was the
product of our journeys.
I introduced my wife to recreational vehicles
in 1998, soon after we married. When our son
was born in 2000 and our daughter in 2001, we
proved to ourselves with a little trial-and-error
that traveling extensively with young children
is not only possible but recommended. From Mount
Rushmore to the Grand Canyon, from Tombstone,
Arizona to Dodge City, Kansas, or from the “Western
White House” in Crawford, Texas to the
real one in Washington, D. C., our kid’s
lives will be imprinted with memories of places
visited and friends made.
I am forever in my parent’s debt. They
exposed me to a different way of thinking about
life – even though this was not their
intent nor did it sink in until almost two decades
later. When my father was diagnosed with leukemia
not long after he retired, I realized that life
is not always about working 60 hours a week
until you drop or waiting until your retired
at 65 years old to start seeing the world. Everyday
it seems I recall an old but wonderful memory
from my earlier life. While some of my friends
are trying to escape theirs by buying fast sports
cars, I have bought another RV in order to stay
connected with mine. Of course what completes
my life now is having a loving wife who shares
this passion with me. We can only hope that
our children’s lives too will be enriched
from our love of the road. For us happiness
has been taking these journeys together and
literally finding our own highway to heaven
here on earth.
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