The collected writings of Bob Giddings - Wandering Into Retirement

Patch, Patch, Patch

8/27/02

"Patch, Patch, Patch!" That's what a friend of mine said one day when I was complaining about some nagging decrepitude. "After you turn 50, it's just patch, patch, patch."

The same may be said of RVs of any age. If not, you haven't been going to the right places. The flex and bounce and strain of travel makes things go boink in the night.

The list so far this trip: a tire destroyed, the cockpit cover on my kayak blown to hellandgone, a bookshelf that descended on one end (spilling Greek Civilization As We Know It all over the couch), a drawer that lost it's rear support (and couldn't be opened without removing everything under the sink), a painting that turned surreal on me and hopped off the wall (shattering glass all over the entryway), and an oven that won't light.

This last is especially mysterious and irritating. I've only used it a few times in almost 2 years I've owned the trailer, and this was going to be the trip I cooked a roast and baked bread. The pilot lights fine, but either the valve won't let the gas pass, or it's stopped up somewhere. Or both.

I did find out you can cook Sara Lee croissants using only the pilot, if you wait long enough. The last batch are rusting in there right now. Supposedly the oven is still in warranty. We'll see. Maybe I'll take it all apart. Like that will tell me something.

Things are cool, quiet, and calm this morning, here at Deerfield Lake. The nearest neighbor is a hundred yards away, and the one beyond that a hundred more. There's nothing to hear but the birds and squirrels, a light breeze in the trees, and the occasional challenging roar of the biggest horseflies I have ever seen. These guys are at least a half inch long, and come at you like little skillsaws cutting into plywood. They are fearless. And slow. Whack.

Fortunately there are not many of them. Fewer now.

That's about all there is to hear. Except Vivaldi, and I've got him throttled down pretty low. A fish just flopped and splashed, down in the lake. Fifty feet up in the pines, something like a pale yellow butterfly, or maybe an albino moth, is fluttering about with surprising energy. From this distance it resembles nothing so much as a bit of old yellowed newspaper, suspended and toyed with in the breeze.

Spreading the bug news, high in the pines.

I guess I'm bored. It's a wonderful feeling. I'd recommend it to anyone.

Bob

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