The Long Road to Laughter

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Leaving Fayetteville was bittersweet. It’s always hard to say goodbye to one of the kids, but we were excited to head out for our next stop. Today’s drive was about six hours, and I think we’re both certain now—our travel days need to be shorter. It’s rough, especially for my chauffeur, to haul a large rig for that long. Worse still knowing that once you get “home,” you’ve got a solid hour of setup before you can even think about relaxing.

Eastern Oklahoma, geographically speaking, is one of America’s best-kept secrets. If you’ve never driven through, I’m certain your perception doesn’t match the reality. It’s so much prettier than my roadside snapshots can convey—large hills, tall trees, rivers, streams, and stunning lakes at every turn. That said, the roads themselves? Not part of the secret. One might assume that with casinos and medical marijuana, the state could afford to tidy that up. Texas wasn’t any better, a fact proven by the carnage we found inside the rig.

We had a bit of an adventure on the road today. We passed what appeared to be a very small child sitting on the side of the highway, wrapped in a pink polka-dot blanket. About half a mile up the road was a vehicle with broken-out windows. We turned around to check on the child, which took some time—there was nowhere to make a quick U-turn. I considered calling 911, but we didn’t know where we were, and there wasn’t a sign in sight.

As we neared the spot, another vehicle had stopped. The driver was male, and I thought the child—who I assumed was a little girl—might be more comfortable with a female presence. I was honestly afraid she’d just witnessed a trauma. I approached gently: “Hi there. My name is Amanda. I’m a nurse. Are you OK?”

She turned toward me, and that’s when I realized—she wasn’t a child at all. She was a tiny, strung-out woman of about 35, wearing massive sunglasses. The man in the car was genuinely trying to help, and we learned the broken-down vehicle was hers. Her story became increasingly convoluted as we tried to assist, but she was argumentative and unwilling to accept our offers to drive her to a nearby gas station for food, a drink, and a safe place to wait. We left as the police arrived.

I texted our friends already at the RV park, who have been living in their rig full-time for 5 years now, to let them know we’d be late. That conversation was priceless.

Two hours later, we arrived at a beautiful RV park beside a gorgeous lake. The inside of the rig had suffered quite a bit from the brutal roads, and it took time to clear things up. In the process, I managed to crush our beloved dog bowl in one of the slides.

I know it sounds insane to be obsessed with a dog bowl, but this bowl has been a lifesaver—big enough that we don’t have to refill it one thousand times a day, stable enough to stay put, filters the water and miraculously keeps water in either bowl or dog— but off the floor. I’m ordering a replacement before I go to sleep tonight.

Once set up, cleaned up, and finally able to relax, our friends had prepared an amazing

dinner. We sat and laughed so hard my stomach still hurts. Delicious chili, a slightly cool night, and the kind of conversation that fills your cup. The dogs ran wild chasing frisbees, and Daisy was only a moderate asshole to their dog Willie. I hope she settles in—it’s always a little embarrassing when she acts up.

This week promises to be fun-filled and active, and I’m ready for it.

Next up: Dallas Shenanigans: Four Adults, Three Dogs, Two RVs, One Week, Zero Chill

What trouble do four adults living full-time in their RVs find in Dallas? We shall see.