I finally gave up one of my Crazie Town mid-life crisis dreams. The one where I tour the United States with The Ugly Duckling; the 1955 camper I bought two years ago from the flip-flop-wearing not-a-killer, Ed.
Before the Vintage Camper vision, I’d dreamed of having a little cabin on our 113 acre family farm. I’d gotten pretty close, meeting with a shed-building company and designing a 10×10 rustic hut. A week from installation, they called the county for a building permit and were rejected. It seems that even though across the road there is a plastic skeleton sitting on a broken toilet and next door they have 12 English mastiffs chained up, I’m not allowed to have a structure without running water.
a lot of tears a little creative thinking, I realized I already owned the perfect little cabin — on wheels.
I drove hill and dale looking for the perfect place to park her.
And finally settled on a knoll overlooking the pond. Before you go, “ahhh” I should tell you that this has got to be the world’s ugliest pond. What ever Bubba my dad hired 30 years ago to
screw it up fix it, managed to make it worse. It’s not deep enough to sustain anything but a few frogs and an acre of pond scum. But, it’s water and I’m dreaming of the day the crops produce enough money when I can screw it up fix it.
Maybe it is the OCD in me, but I’ve enjoyed carving out my own, personally-designed campground.
I cleared out piles of cedar branches.
I bought a picnic table and, against my straight brothers’ wishes, painted it shocking pink — to the delight of my gay brothers.
Built a fire ring
and, like the giant sofa the movers place in your house that you decide needs to be six inches to the left, I moved the fire ring and rebuilt it again.
I also discovered that the Ugly Duckling is like a crack den for wasps. Not the White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant kind, but the one with wings and a painful sting. And, shortly after that, I was crushed to discover that in an 8×8 space, you should never use a broom to chase them away.