I confess, I drive to drink
At 71 years of aging my medical care portfolio plan has me an Bobby Magee parked out in the middle of nowhere, as shown on our 2010 cover, fighting the aging effects of stress by enjoying the prescribed medicine of an authentic “sundowner.” This is, we have found from like minded “sundown” boon-dockers we have shared the wonder of over a folding picnic table full of our hoarded Alaska smoked salmon, their Wisconsin cheese, anothers California pickled green beans, and a Washington wine, with New Yorker crackers — absolutely the way to live. Who ever said you had to give up friends to live this life?
I know that dietitians at one of those high priced retirement homes advertised ad-nauseam on local TV with video of Miss America 1960-something swing her cute little tush on a miniature golf driving range, might consider it scandalous to combine food groups as Finger Foods, and Alcohol, but hey, most of the people actually traveling by motorhomes have lived well past their life expectancy at birth. From our collective wisdom of living we enjoy sharing sun-downs from an unmarked campgrounds along an Anasazi civilization (or ancient one) trail, where the rhythm of life eternal is measured in sunsets that somehow occur each and every day, with the promise of, perhaps, another tomorrow.
As mentioned elsewhere we both have driven past a need to escape the dysfunctional chaos of being dumped after in a nasty divorce thirty years ago where my children (the perfect family portrayed at www.SearchForAShadowOfThePast.com) two of my three children ended up respecting the instigator —a mental health counselor— of the union I sacrificed Unfortunately I did not show up in court to protest her adultery with a mental health councilor that was big into a cultish church. He was the manipulator of my youngest daughter, Colette, stealing my life’s work of a photo file, and travel film that had taken two years to produce. The son whose life I saved by dropping out of high school to join the Air Force as a photographer —totally changing my life— blamed me for his “early birth” suggested my fun gig on a cruise ship as a guest lecturer was really that of a gigolo. His punishment to me is I have a number of grandchildren (?) I have never met.
Ironically Bobby Magee was also dumped, after 25 years, so her church member husband, a bodyguard to the charismatic preacher who somehow needed to interfere in her marriage. Perhaps it was on account Roberta — a “Preachers Kid” which is the title of her book in progress— was at that time herself an ordained reverend. Know this spiritual way was to be legally able to operate her own drug and alcohol recovery program focused on runaway street kids in Spokane, Washington.
As both of us have Native American DNA, we hit the road to restore our connection with Creator and found his magic everywhere. Bobby still has a legal 501(c)3 Charity, and we have spent time and money —just like Bill and Melinda—supporting a possible answer to malaria. Hit us with the right “payback” project for motorhome travelers —as transporting rescue dogs— and we might respond.
As nomads, a favorite thing to do around the holidays is to “rent” needy families to help us pretend they are coming to their Grandparents for a picnic table Thanksgiving. As my hickory chip campfire smoked turkey is “to die for,” occasionally we have invoked the right to make up a long lost day, perhaps, in May.
At Christmas, seeing how I have saved so much money over the years in presents, we grab every opportunity to play Santa’s Helper deliver to children living in RVs that don’t have a chimney. The funniest miracle of all happen at Quartzite, Arizona, at a BLM short time (two weeks) area that has some neat saguaro cactus that with a respectfully tied ribbon can reasonable pass as a Christmas tree. The register, who usually is a senior that appreciates the small stipend paid a campground host, turned out obviously to be a stressed out single mother with a, “I take care of my own protective attitude”. We knew this from two adorable girls watching us in our big rig roll in, as all three slept in a tiny little single axle tagalong camp trailer, with no apparent room for an abusive father.
Anyhow, as Quartzite is advertised as the “World’s Largest Flea Market,” we found two brand-new fancy big city dolls, in original boxes. And when we told the owner of the stand who these were intended for, she went to the trouble to find Santa paper for wrapping. Coming back from town with sacks of groceries filling our little Susuki dingy —looking somewhat as a sleigh— Bobby Magee stepped out of a cloud of dirt road dust carrying the packages. And before “momma” could say no, she told the girls that their mother had been worried Santa wouldn’t be able to land his reindeer because of all the coyotes, so she had written to suggest motorhome helpers be sent to deliver their presents for being soooo good.
The kids also won out the old argument as when the presents could be opened. Wow. That didn’t take long. Then all five of us cried for five different reasons. I was particularly pleased that nothing was said about their huggable “Grandparents Barry and Bobby,” and the doll “babies” just happening to be white.
Which brings us to the point of this long winded Alaska style tale. Usually we travel with a tankfuls of smiles. That is, until rudely reminded by “Big Brother” media out of New York City(!), supporting their multinational corporate owned Entertainment Tonight with propaganda commentary spin-doctored into being the “News.”
Being a little sick of watching CBS CSI autopsies at dinnertime, five nights a week, we have given up the satellite idea, and use our cell phone booster to access the Internet. This way we can watch downloaded movies, without paying the price of having to listen to a $15 million dollar talent, “Catfight Couric,” suggest —having gone through 10-hours of taping for a few second of sound-bite to do so— that we Alaskans are so dumb we don’t even know how to read.
Sorry, “Catfight,” I that that stupid statement ranks right up their with geographically challenged predijuiced “news” pronouncements as the unexplained “Nowhere, Alaska.” What apparently wasn’t newsworthy was that overpriced project was to replace a City of Ketichan owned ferry accessing the State of Alaska funded airport, primarily used by a foreign owned cruise ship monopoly as Congress in all it’s PAC wisdom, using the Jones Act to destroy any American maritime competition. As for the columnist who declared “Give The Money Back,” I think Sister Sarah should turn him over her knee for a good spanking. The reportable fact is that while Alaskan’s pay a Federal Tax at the pump, we have no Federally funded highways, Interstate freeways, or bridges.