Dawn Watson/CNBNews Contributor
Living life in an eight-by-twelve trailer ain’t easy. If it was, everybody would do it. The roads would be congested with campers, RV’s, and tow vehicles that look like they’re built to haul cities. Some of them are.
In case you haven’t read about me, here it is in a nutshell (emphasis on the ‘nut’):
Elderly dog trainer/writer can’t pay property taxes, loses home, friend buys home, elderly woman invests in truck and trailer because no apartment will accept her with six elderly, grouchy, loud dogs, which she accumulated because she loves dogs and was only too happy to take in the ones that nobody wanted.
The trailer in which I invested was originally built in 1969 and reincarnated beginning in January, 2019. You’ll notice quite a few folks sporting Lava Blue paint on their clothes; these are the friends that helped me reincarnate Sabrina, which is now her name.
Since hitting the road a month ago I’ve had much excitement. There was the time a bunch of police cars circled my wagon and told me that although Walmart said it was okay to park there overnight, Audubon had an ordinance forbidding it. I couldn’t hear the rest of what the nice officer said because the dogs were barking hysterically, obviously trying to protect and serve. By that I mean protect me and serve the officers up on a platter. So I packed up and left.
Then there was the Great Battery Escape.
I was driving down the highway when a woman pulled up alongside of me and hollered, “Hey, your spare tire is burning!” I pulled over and checked it out and, sure enough, the tire was dragging because the bottom fell out of the hatch, which is sort of like the trunk of a trailer.
A man yelled at me to get out of his driveway (Pearl Vision) so I pulled into the lot. It was then that I realized my spare tire had originally occupied space with the battery that runs my solar power, my only source of energy in the trailer. Besides the dogs, of course.
Now, I was spare-tireless and had no power for lights, heat, cooling, or charging. So I did the only thing that a normal, intelligent person would do in this worst-case scenario: I lay down in the lot and had a good cry. A long, good cry.
Eventually, the yelling man came to my rescue, apologized, and helped me pull the tire into the trailer. I retraced my steps and found the battery—undamaged—on Route 42 and lugged it into the truck. I eventually got power restored and resumed my nomadic existence.
Over the last month I’ve had people give me the thumbs-up, the finger, words of wisdom, and plenty of requests to pack up and leave.
Sabrina is scratched up because the first time I pulled her was the first time I’d ever pulled a trailer in my life. She has chunks missing where I hit curbs, and her windows are laden with puppy nose-art. Inside, the rubber pads I use for flooring are already stripped away due to the incontinence of my traveling companions. The rarified odor of animal permeates everything, every article of clothing, every pillow, every square inch of me.
But the amazing part of this adventure has been the kindness of friends. Friends have fed me, allowed me to wash my dirty clothes—and dirty body—and boondock on their property. They’ve lent me money, given me food, and prayed for me. They’ve offered me their driveways, their showers, and their hearts.
When this is over and I’m living in a brick-and-mortar structure, I’ll remember.
I will, in fact, never forget.
Photo by Adobe Spark
published gloucestercitynews.net | April 22, 2019