Journal of a Living Lady #181

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

As much as Buddy dislikes shopping, he frequently accompanies me. I am never sure whether he is just bored or feels a need to protect me from getting overly-tired or attacked by a masked man.

 

I prefer to shop by myself for lots of reasons, not the least of which is to bypass his impulsiveness. Buddy usually cancels any bargains I might find. Last month's spur-of-the moment trek proves my point..

 

We headed to the nearby V.F.W. thrift store for a curtain rod.  We came back with an ancient camper that takes up a third of our drive-way. Seems that a local resident donated it. Hope he got a nice deduction on his taxes.

 

The sign on the V.F.W. door said " Pop-Up Camper - $400 O.B.O."  That got Buddy's attention.

 

On the far side of the building sat a 1977, avocado-colored camper which had obviously seen better days. The top section was misaligned with the bottom making it whop-sided. I kicked the almost flat, balding tires and rubbed my hand across the cracked plastic windows. Buddy wasn't getting my hint. He finally countered with his usual masculine mantra: "Women look on the outside. Men look on the inside."

 

Because the camper was squashed as well as stubbornly locked, we couldn't even peek inside. It was Caveat emptor. Buddy didn't care. He never studied Latin and besides, he wanted this monstrosity..

 

No matter that we hadn't camped since 1997. That was when Buddy talked me into going on a gold prospecting adventure with him. He paid a few hundred bucks to dig large holes in the dirt in the pouring rain. The exotic place was about fifty miles from our home. Sure, we have a little something to show for the three-day effort. Those infamous gold flakes are floating in a teeny-tiny bottle of water. It is the family joke. Don't ever let Buddy watch a TV infomercial.

 

The day after we returned home from that gold panning trip, I was told my cancer had returned. Our pull-behind camper was soon sold and that was that. I thought.

 

Being the submissive wife that I am, I wrote the check for the new, antique camper. Buddy backed up the pick-up truck to the rectangular piece of metal that offered such high hopes to my spouse.

 

Try as they might, neither Buddy nor the V.F.W. volunteer could get the crank to work or the chrome ball to fit properly. I watched half-amused, half disgusted at the sight. Buddy nervously drove home while I craned my neck to be sure this wasn't going to be a replay of Lucy and Desi's "Long, Long Trailer" movie.

 

Our hope was that the pick-up truck wouldn't divorce the vintage camper in the middle of the highway. A few minutes later I laughed out loud as Buddy sweat huge drops of genuine perspiration. He hadn't counted on passing a congregation of  state patrol cars parked at the Georgia Mountain Fair entrance. He did good though. He stayed conscious.

 

We made it home safely with Buddy's treasure. He and a helpful neighbor finally got the top of the camper raised. The crank still doesn't work. Inside is a rusty, non-working gas stove and an ice box with stains so bad that Shout couldn't holler them out. I don't sew, so we are stuck with the orange and brown sofa cushions that convert into a bed just big enough for Buddy and half of me.

 

Whether we will ever camp in this ugly contraption remains to be seen. But Buddy now has a renovation project that will keep him occupied for quite some time. In the meanwhile, maybe I can go shopping for some real bargains.

 

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nancyk@alltel.net

for Sept. 26, 2002