Remember our first night in Cottonwood in 2011, stepping outside to find half the police department on our doorstep? Well, it did quiet down but we were never overly thrilled with that park. I'll get to why shortly.
First let me explain that most of these parks depend on 'permanent' residents for their survival. Though the transient business is more lucrative, the 'perms' or long-term residents are what keep these parks going. The daily or weekly visitors pay a much higher rate than the long-term folks do. But the parks can't depend on transient business. It ebbs and flows, depending on weather and the economy. However, the ones who live in parks year round or six months at a time (seasonal) provide more dependable income for park owners.
Thus, you find most (not all) parks with a good percentage of older RVs, trailers or fifth-wheels that look like they've been there awhile...because they have. These residents keep the park operating. When you read RV park reviews online (and I've done my own share of reviews) the parks who have 'permanents' often get bad reviews from some people. Those who leave negative reviews saying 'there are long term people in old rigs, blahty blah blah' are those fortunate enough in life to drive quarter or half million dollar diesel pushers, often towing or transporting luxury vehicles. Rarely do you find any fulltimers rich enough to live in top of the line RVs. There are a few but most driving these mansions on wheels are just out traveling. They do not want to park next to a twenty year old rig, no matter how well kept it might be. In fact, some draw the line at anything older than five years! And there are parks that cater to these more affluent travelers and won't let you in if your rig is over a certain age. I get that. To a point.
The park in Cottonwood was probably 50% long term residents. Some were very nice folks (that we've maintained contact with) and some were very questionable. An example of questionable would be Airstream Guy. (My husband and I've gotten into the habit of giving people descriptive monikers when we don't know their names, such as 'The Criminal' I told you about in Part 1.)
Airstream Guy, as you might guess, lived alone in...what else?---an old Airstream. He wore pretty much the same clothes every day as far as we could tell. This outfit included a pair of battered sandals and an equally battered fishing hat. He was heavily and darkly bearded. From a distance, he looked like a dusty, derelict member of ZZ Top. No offense to ZZ Top.
For the first six weeks we were there, Airstream Guy would come outside mid-morning, stretch, stand and if we were sitting outside, stare at us steadily for some minutes. Then he'd stroll around his trailer and disappear inside. He did this a couple times a day. After he figured out we weren't going anywhere anytime soon, he eventually lumbered over and struck up a conversation. He was friendly enough but somewhat strange...and we thought he was stoned most of the time.
Oftentimes, we'd see fairly young guys pull into the park and stop at his site. He'd come out, lean into the car window, have short conversations, then the person would leave. It didn't take long for the lightbulb to come on for us to nod and say, "Mmm-hmm...drugs." But we couldn't really tell who was supplying whom.
We eventually found out that 'Airstream Guy's' name was actually Bill. Once he broke the ice with us, Bill began making an almost daily visit. That grew old after a month or so, as he could stand there (he never sat down) for an hour or more expounding on his subject du jour. He was kind of interesting at first, but as he became more comfortable around us, he confided quite a few wacky conspiracy theories to which we gave the side-eye. And as time went on, he got repetitive and we'd hear the same stories over and over. In addition, he was pretty rank and desperately needed a good wash.
The truth was eventually revealed. Bill's various medical needs were being taken care of by the VA (just as my husband's are). The difference was that Bill was being given medical marijuana for his dubious pain issues...and then selling it out his back door to the various young visitors mentioned above. And if his aging mother needed sinus medicine or allergy pills, he'd go to the clinic with a phony sinus infection or other appropriate symptoms and then give his mom the medication (I can forgive him that). He also got around to telling us that he had a pet---a huge black snake that he'd found in the park and took home. He said that sometimes he'd leave his door open, let the snake out to roam, but that it always returned and lived in the trailer with him. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
After these various confidences, if we saw Bill open his door and step outside, we'd suddenly be urgently needed inside.
In the Cottonwood park, there were other goings-on that gave us pause. There was the lady who worked in the office who would often tell potential customers, "Oh, I wouldn't come to this park, if I were you. You won't like it." The customer service manager in me cringed. There was the maintenance man who spent two thirds of his shift every day working on his own projects but never had enough time to get park upkeep done. So the sparse patches of grass rarely got mowed. There were the two old ladies who lived next to each other and spent a great deal of time sabotaging their neighbors in various ways. There was the old fellow, who lived below us in a dilapidated old fifth-wheel, whose site was littered with junk of all sorts including cement blocks, old car parts and a rusty air conditioner. He rode a bicycle everywhere and refused to make eye contact or speak in anything more than a snarl, grunt or growl. Hard to tell what he was muttering as he wheeled by. We called him 'The Hermit'.
All this unpleasant drama became rather unsettling, so online we went to find a better park to stay in. We looked at several places and found most of them wanting in one way or another. Eventually we discovered a park in Camp Verde, about 26 miles away that sounded nice. Having learned our lesson from the misleading pictures and verbiage on the Cottonwood park's website, we decided to drive over there and see for ourselves.
Talk about night and day! This park was beautiful! Well maintained, beautifully landscaped, wide, shady sites! We stopped in at the office and inquired. The lady manning the desk was a tad stuffy and informed us they had an age limit on rigs but that was subject to management approval. Our hearts sank, as our RV is not new by a long shot. We drove back to Cottonwood, got out the camera and took a set of pictures of the rig from stem to stern. A few days later, we drove back to Camp Verde and asked if they could look at the pictures and make a judgement if they could accept us into the park. The lady scrutinized the photos closely and after a few minutes told us she didn't think it was a problem.
Yippeee! We happily reserved a site there for six months to start October 1, 2012. By this time, we'd already learned I'd be going back to Indiana in January of '12 with spring and summer spent there, so we booked the Camp Verde park for the following fall and winter.
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Now jumping to our summer of '12 in Indiana while I finished out my work assignment, I neglected to mention a couple of things.
First, when Patrick got back to Indiana, we had a 'chat' about the lack of room in the RV. There's a standard 2 bench dinette in our rig, however it was unusable due to the fact that I hauled most of my bead and jewelry making gear and supplies with us and it was all packed into the dinette area, below and above the benches and under the table. This included a bead annealer the size of a large toolbox, a big oxygen tank and a 30# propane tank. Not to mention several large totes and organizers full of beads, findings, stringing materials, etc. You get the picture...
Patrick suggested we get a small cargo trailer for all that stuff, making more room for us in the RV. I agreed and he started looking for something suitable. At the same time, I learned of an organization called Sisters On The Fly and became enamored of the wildly decorated vintage mini campers the Fly ladies pulled around on their adventures. I showed Patrick pictures of the tiny old trailers and 'canned hams' these intrepid women hauled, and he got interested, too.
One day he told me of a little camper he'd found on Craig's List. He'd called the owner, who said if we wanted to see it, we'd have to come look at it that evening, as they were leaving the next day for Vegas and he wouldn't be back for a couple of weeks. We set out for Portland, west of Lansing, MI, a two hour drive. We got there before dark, found the young fellow selling the trailer and he took us where he had it parked. He unlocked it and I took a look. So cute!
Six feet wide and thirteen long, including the tongue, it still had the original wood paneling, cabinets, and tube radio built into the wall. There was a tiny two-burner gas stove, original, and the original pump sink, with only one little chip. The cushions on the couch across the back had been re-upholstered and the floor had been re-carpeted. There were wooden end tables built in over the wheel wells; one of the lamps was missing but the other was still bolted on. Someone had added a newer furnace but the original one was still there. They'd also added some extra lighting and a small microwave in one of the upper kitchen cupboards. It was solid as a rock. "What are you asking?" I said to the guy. "I'd like $XXXX." Mmmm, a bit more than I was willing to pay. "I'll give you $WXXX." He shook his head, then came down a couple hundred. I persisted with my original offer. He shook his head again and came down a few more hundred, halfway between my price and his. I thought about it and said, "Done!"
We didn't even yet know what kind of trailer it was (more on that later), except that it was a 1966, about 80% original and in fantastic shape.
Over the summer, Patrick kept himself busy sanding off the original white paint, which after 47 years had grown chalky and powdery. You could swipe your finger over it and your finger would come away white. He repainted it a deep red to match the stripes on our RV. (I named her 'Ruby-Deaux'. This was a play on words from the park we'd stayed at in Nebraska called Robideaux, which the locals pronounced 'rubydoo'.)
But we still didn't know what we had. There was no VIN number, no markings of any kind whatsoever. Patrick went to the RV Museum right outside Elkhart and talked to the librarian, telling him about our little camper. The gentleman pulled out some old catalogs and soon found it. The catalog had an ad from the StopOver Travel Trailer Company of Elkhart, IN featuring a picture of a little trailer identical to ours. They had only been in business for a year or so. The one in the picture had no model name but showed a floor plan which included a tiny fold-out dinette. Ours had no dinette or signs that one might ever have existed, Patrick told the guy. The librarian then speculated that what we had was probably a prototype for the one in the ad. So 'Ruby-deaux' was a 1966 Stopover.
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| 'Ruby-Deaux' in Arizona |
The second incident occurred sometime in June or July. I got a call at work from Patrick and could tell he was highly upset. "I need you to come and get me." He sounded breathless. "I totaled your car."
"Whaaat? Are you ok? Where are you? Are you hurt?" I could feel the panic rising. He said he was fine and told me where it had happened. I ran downstairs, told the boss I had to go and why and took off like a bat out of, well, you know where. I flew up County Rd. 17 to County Rd. 6, turned left just past the bridge and headed west. He'd told me to just look for the aftermath of a wreck and for the police cars as he didn't know what the cross street was.
Up ahead I saw flashing lights just past an intersection, slowed down and pulled over in front of the cop car that was still there. But neither Patrick or the Chevy were there. I jumped out and headed for the cop who immediately came toward me and started to tell me I needed to leave. I explained to him that my husband had called saying he was in an accident, and did he have any idea where another wreck on County Rd 6 might be? He turned and pointed across the four lane road to a field cater-cornered from where we stood. "That him?"
Out in the middle of the field stood Patrick next to our now battered gray Lumina. I thanked the cop, jumped back in my vehicle (a company car) and made my way to my stricken husband. I could tell even from a distance that he was a mess emotionally, but in typical Patrick-fashion, he was doing his best to not let it show. I parked and ran over to him, teary but calming down as he was apparently mobile and not obviously injured. Another cop came up to us and advised us to empty the car as the tow truck was nearly there to haul my poor beloved car to the boneyard. As we unpacked the trunk of the car, full of groceries he'd just purchased, we discovered gallon jugs of water broken from the impact, leaking all over burst potato chip bags and crushed Oreos. That was one calamity too many for my poor husband. "That $0& broke my cookies!" he exclaimed.
Patrick explained how the wreck happened. He was in the eastbound lane to the left of a semi. As they approached the intersection, the semi slowed to turn right. A car then pulled out in front of the truck directly into Patrick's path. Patrick stood on the brake and tried to squeeze between the car and the semi but clipped the car in the rear quarter panel sending the guy spinning. Patrick sailed over a short concrete post, a berm and a ditch. The post ripped the entire underside out of the car; the berm sent him airborne over the ditch. An eyewitness to the event said it looked just like Dukes of Hazzard, yee-haww! I think that berm saved Patrick's life and prevented him from going nose-first into the ditch. Anyway, apparently God wasn't ready for him that day.
So as we set out west again in September, we were pulling a little red trailer behind us instead of towing a car. We'd decided to wait till we got back to Arizona to get another car.
Stay tuned...
Till next time,
"There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir: we must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls, and calls each vagabond by name." ~ William Bliss
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