The trailer hitch jack bottom was scraping on every dip, making a horrible screech. I stopped the truck and studied for a moment, feeling like a moron, until it hit me – the hitch on the truck was too low. Duh!
So I up and went to get a hitch that was a little higher, and attached it. When I got back to the Casita, I backed the truck, but heard a slight ‘thunk’ as I backed up too close. But as I shifted the stick to first gear, I didn’t account for the slope, and slipped backwards again before going forward. I heard a louder crunch, and in my panic I gunned the engine, and did this:
The edge of the bumper snagged the trailer ball hitch lock, dragging Conchita la Casita a foot before the bumper gave way. Luckily the wheel chocks held, otherwise I might have seen the Casita roll down my brother’s steeply sloped street.
The Casita, except for a slight bent hitch latch, was none too much for wear, and while the trunk bumper will still work, I went online shopping for this unexpected “upgrade” on a truck I didn’t own.
C’est la vie, c’est la guerre.
In my early twenties, a $200+ repair may have been much more serious, a choice between repair or eating. I remember living in San Francisco’s Lower Haight pre-tech days, living with 5 roommates and their significant others, who my roommates swore didn’t actually live with them, even though I saw them slipping in every night.
I worked in an outdoor cafe in the Embarcadero, serving the financial serfs, who would tell me unironically that they had to budget their morning lattes. I wanted to tell them, oh darn, I got up at 4am today, will work again tonight at an art film house in order to make rent. I can barely keep my eyes open
But, now I know, we all go through phases like that in our lives. I’ve had my salad days, and now almost feel like I’m coming around, but hopefully not full circle. Hopefully, more like a spiral, with maybe a similar spirit of adventure, and less financial tightrope walking.
I think with age, though, comes a certain knowledge about what you can withstand, what you have withstood. We get to a comfortable place, a place we had to claw tooth and nail to get to, taking evening classes, doing self-learning, making things up as we go. And suddenly, we reach a place we never thought we’d reach – a place of relative comfort.
But, back in the far reaches of our minds we remember that, yes, we too suffered and bore our suffering. I remember getting to Alaska in my mid-twenties, and standing in a cold room with that sorta fake wood paneling with the lady foreman saying she couldn’t find my resume. I was 2,000 miles from home with $50 in my pocket and no job. The salmon factory foreman told me to go pitch a tent at Tent City, and apply at unemployment.
Sometimes what is born out of what we think might be the worst of experiences are tales of unimagined adventure.
I remember riding camp bicycles to a local salmon factory, pretending we were new workers to steal showers, and free saltine crckers. These factories often had hundreds of workers, with new ones coming in every day, so no one questioned us.
There was a weekly soup kitchen that rotated volunteers from different churches. I loved the Baptists with their huge spread of casseroles, desserts, and even rarer – salad! Salad takes on a new meaning in places where everything is shipped in, so much from cuisine born from cans. Seeing fresh salad was a curiosity, a delight, more so than even than the desserts – though we had seconds of those as well! Made me want to convert!
And then the Catholics came, with their watery soup, and bread with no butter. Frost, this guy from Norway, at a burly 5 foot 4, with the blondest hair and beard, looking like a pocket Thor, said under his breath, ‘Man, I’m gonna just return this! This is Bullshit!’ We told him to shush, and be grateful. I, having been baptized Catholic, was mortified.
But I also remember wrapping the sleeping bag closer around me as the wind tried to rip the sheet plastic off the makeshift PVC tent poles. I remember feigning sleep, as the owner of the Tent City came by in the morning to collect the $6/day rent. And one night, hearing something large sniffing around my tent.
But eventually I got a job at the local shrimp factory, and things became more routine.
I think back on those days as I hold the broken lock, which my brother and I laughed over. There are much worse things that can happen when owning a Casita, this among the least of them. A $200 dollar repair beats the Casita running wild downhill ’til it meets some other immovable object. And no kids on a 4pm partly sunny afternoon. Lucky.
This weekend we plan on making another climbing trip down south, as a last hurrah before I set sail for Chile.
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