Things have been fairly quiet this weekend. Scott has been staying put, working on his commission, doing laundry, y'know, the glamorous stuff. David has been taking the train up to Chicago, seeing a Cubs game in Wrigley Field, and as he put it "roaming the streets."
The motorhome has been parked. So even though I had been calling and checking in, my source of comedic material seemed to be drying up. I almost started to worry. But really all it takes with those two is a little motion, and gravity.
Many of you reading this blog are actually fans of the two stars involved, Scott and David. You may not have even met me. So here is a little background. My family were campers. Regular, constant, serial campers. There are photos of me in front of the trailers my Dad built, and the motorhome my Dad and Grandfather built. I grew up among chemical toilets, outhouses, showers you put quarters into, kitchen sinks that had water that gushed into them only when you pumped a lever.
There is a certain rhythm to camping, and life on the road. Something so ingrained in those that do it, that it becomes second nature. Or perhaps you could call it common sense. Things like packing up before you head down the road.
This morning, the plan was to leave at 5 am. I think this is the only planned before dawn departure. When I called Scott, they had arrived at their destination for the morning. They were on time.
I was worried, it was all going so well.
So I asked, "Please tell me you remembered to unplug everything before you pulled out." Oh, yes, they had put a big note on the steering wheel, "Unplug shit!" So David could not get into the driver's seat and leave dragging an extension cord. David started to drive around 5, Scott thought he could snooze in the back bunk for a few hours.
Without actually being there to witness, it went something like this. The motorhome starts to head down the road, Scott is in the bed, and quickly realizes there is no sleeping in. As the back of the motorhome is a little like a bucking bronco. Add the fact that the mattress in the back has some strange faux leather, plastic kind of covering. Apparently to make it possible to wipe down between rentals. Scott is bouncing up and down, and sorta sliding off the bed.
Meanwhile, this thing called gravity is starting to take over. No one thought to clean the counters or tables off before departure. I don't have a clear account of all that hit the floor, but did hear, "There was shit everywhere." So Scott is up, in a motorhome bouncing down the road. (I didn't ask what he was wearing, I really should have. But if it was more than a pair of tightie whities I would be surprised.) Picking up all the debris that had hit the floor and was rolling around, under tables, and yelling.
The yelling seemed to be focused on who's job it was to put everything away, the driver's, or the sleeping (?) passenger's.
But they have arrived at today's destination, a Frank Lloyd Wright house. The perfect spot for an artist and a builder to visit. You can see it here. After that, they only have one goal. To be in a campsite before dark, before it's closed, so they can actually see what they are doing when they try to plug in. And maybe even sit outside for a minute or two.
It seems like such a reasonable goal.