Meandering Moments by Elsi

I pulled into the Billings KOA this evening and sat in a long, long line, waiting for my turn to register. Now, my RV is the Meandering Moose and, in addition to a gorgeous moose decal on the sides, it also has an ad: Learn about my book—www.RVTourist.com.

To my amusement (and amazement), the RV in front of me in line has a book cover and a similar ad: Author Lauraine Snelling invites you to … Come Home to Blessing www.blessingnd.com.  

So I said to the teen at the KOA office, “How often do you have two authors in a row registering here?” She hadn’t realized who had been in front of me, and was thrilled: “Oh, I love her books!” And it turns out we’re parked right across from one another in the campground, too. Lauraine has a large basset, which Sallie keeps spotting and barking at. Could be a long night? ;-D

We sit, sweat adhering thighs to Naugahyde, pens damp from our grip, the whirr of the air conditioner the only indication that it’s on. Papers rustle; toes twitch in dusty sandals. The air is thick with humidity and the tinge of tired women. Pens jerk across the page in rhythm with previously unnoticed thoughts.

And such an odd day—bad start, good morning, bad afternoon, good ending. Rah?

Yesterday we drove back from the Oregon Christian Writers Conference, in hideous heat, through slow-and-go traffic in Portland … and Tacoma … and Seattle! Shannie worked hard to keep me awake as the evening waned, and we arrived at her house a bit after 8, soaked with sweat and absolutely wiped! I greeted the family, congratulated Brandt on his engagement to Heather last weekend, and collapsed into my beddie-bye.

From which I was roused at 2:39 when the circuit breaker was thrown and my CPAP machine stopped. I moved the plug to my inverter (halleluJah!) and went back to sleep. Brian (Shan’s husband) took care of the problem when he got up in the morning. 

Danielle and I went wandering in the “forest primeval” by their house: such FUN!  Sallie couldn’t believe I actually turned back! Then Brian unplugged me, and I left just after noon. Driving I-5 and then I-405 along the edge of Seattle, I got more and more sleepy. Finally, in desperation, I got off at Bothell and took a 20 minute power nap. GOOD idea! Except then I got lost trying to get back on the highway, drove around for what seemed like forever, finally stopped and got directions, drove 5 miles back to where I needed to be, and continued along my way. In full-fledged rush hour. Which was worse going north, where apparently everyone in Seattle had decided it would be cooler in the Cascade Mountains or the Olympic Peninsula. I drove … and drove … and drove, getting more and more tired, hungry, sleepy, hot (yes, the AC was on, but it was too hot outside for it to have much effect). Pulled into the Ellensburg KOA about 6:30, confident they would be full on a Friday night. But they’re not! They have a space for me, where I can watch the river through the front windshield. Delightful! Soon and very soon I will be in bed, for sure!

Dolphin, my cat (pardon me; I meant saber-toothed tiger, of course), feels that the living room looks much better with the throw pillows scattered around the floor. When I foolishly pick them up, he patiently returns them.

I heard a speaker once say, in all seriousness, “You will, of course, want to arrange your books by size and color.” When’s the last time you sat down and thought, “I think I’d like to read a short, green book today.”

Last night, the keynote speaker at the writing conference told us not to have mediocre art in our homes, as that might distract us from being at the peak of our craft.

And in the campground shower this morning, I startled another camper by saying, “Well, the French fries are a nice touch!” On the bench in the changing area of the showers was a package of McDonalds fries. Ah, well, to each his own! ;-D

What a terrible day Monday was! It started okay—we drove and drove, and Sallie barked, and nothing in particular happened. Then we got to the place where Mama learns about “writing” (something to do with my computer keyboard, I presume). It was terribly hot: Mama was wet with sweat, and Sallie was panting. I just sat and quietly suffered, as is due my dignity. All the power went out several times, and Mama said something about “circuit breakers” (she says strange things). And then she went away to her meetings, and left Sallie and me in the RV, windows open, no AC. (BAD Mama!)

It was a long afternoon. I searched for a cool cave, but for some reason it wasn’t any cooler under the quilt. It wasn’t cooler in the litter box area. Finally I just lay on the carpet and panted. My life seemed to pass before my eyes—the glorious days when I ruled the world, climbing the Christmas tree, training Mama, reorganizing the house when I was a tiny tiger-cub … I vaguely remember Mama and someone else coming in and out … they tried to make me drink water … they kept talking to me … it’s all sort of blurry in my memory.

Finally they closed the wall and drove the RV somewhere. Only then did they turn the AC on. That certainly felt much better, though it was a couple of hours before I regained my alert energy. So now we’re camped by the executive director’s house, and Merd (the Canby Grove person who helped us) says it’s because of me—something about heat stroke. See? I told you I’m the most important one around!

{comment from Elsi: It was 99° or higher in the RV; we kept blowing the breakers. Finally they were able to move us to a 50-amp circuit. I truly thought we were going to lose Dolphin; he just lay there, heart racing, panting pathetically, ignoring us …}

We arrive at the Oregon Christian Writers summer conference this morning, where we all dream of finding an editor who will see our genius and sign us to a lifetime contract. (HA!)

But I was thinking, in the campground shower, that the main reason I go is to be around writers and editors, Christian writers and editors, people who speak the same language. What a blessing!

Because, after all, Jesus is the real Author, the “author and finisher of our faith,” according to Hebrews 12:2. He wrote me, provided the setting, developed my character, and takes me through various conflicts, all for the purpose of providing a glorious ending! 

“Hey, Noah, give us some dancing music!”

Noah smiled and played faster, his nimble fingers moving across the guitar strings. His friend Rob supported the tempo on bongos.

I spent this evening at the City Blend coffee house (soon to be renamed the Mystic Mug), 3120 S. Old Yale Road #11, Abbotsford, BC (604.556.3914). Noah Wishart and Rob Carpenter were the live entertainment for a small crowd consisting of friends, family, several smiling strangers, and an eager server named Christina.

“Come on, baby, let’s have some singing! What’s your name? Don’t you want to dance?” Christina snapped her fingers like castanets, swaying her hips to the beat, even taking over the drums at one point. The rest of us drank soft drinks, smoothies, and coffee and enjoyed the show.

Mieke Wishart (Noah’s mom), my friend Shannon van Roekel, and I will leave Sunday for the Oregon Christian Writers Summer Conference outside Portland.  Ah, the joys of art, literature, music, and a caring heart!

A beagle’s back end in a bed of bright bluebonnets?
Back end, tail wagging, is all that I see!
Scent-hound she is, tracking critters persistently—
What a great watchdog (she knows we’ll agree)!
Chasing off danger, protecting her mama,
Challenging all with her great, baying sound.
Sniffing her way between bushes and flowers,
Fully alert, with her nose to the ground—
Somewhere she’ll find them, somehow she’ll track them,
Something is out there (she hasn’t a doubt).
No giving up! She continues to track them,
Earning her badge as the best Beagle Scout!

I’m camped in Ellensburg, Washington, in a nicely shaded spot. Sallie and I wandered across the campground to see the Yakima River flowing by. She wasn’t impressed. I sang “Barges” to it and then the Robert Louis Stevenson song, “Where Go the Boats”:
Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along forever,
With trees on either hand.
Green leaves a-floating,
Castles on the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating—
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.
Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

My parents got our first trailer when I was eight, because I’d outgrown the front seat of the station wagon (Susie Blue, its name was). Whenever possible, we stayed in “real” campgrounds: national or state parks, forests, and so forth. But occasionally we’d be in or near a city and would need to camp in civilization (an accessible swimming pool was another encouragement for this). They hadn’t invented KOAs back then (we’re talking the 1950s), but many regular trailer parks would accept tourists. Their sign would read “ONS okay,” and others might post “No ONS” (over-night stops).  Mother mentioned in the family trip log how sad it was to see the little “trailer park children” playing in the dust, and how embarrassed she was when I would join them.  Well, it’s different now. I find more and more KOAs that have long-term residents in them: people with a construction or roadwork job, families in transit for one reason or another. Not full-timers who stay in a desired location for two or three months, but people who actually live here. They set up plywood around the edges of their RV to keep the sun off the tires. They usually don’t bother with potted plants and yard ornaments. For now, this is their home. Sallie thinks this would be a lovely place to live, with all the dogs to bark at and squirrels and rabbits to threaten!