Where's That Checkbook?

It's always sad to leave the desert but the beauty of Sonoma County softens the transition. It seems we wracked up a higher than usual number of repairs to both the Jeep and the Minnie. Our first problem was the large windshield crack that appeared in the Minnie almost overnight. The ad on the radio says to get it taken care of before it reaches the size of a dollar bill. Now what does that mean? This crack is just a long line going from the bottom up the middle--it looks nothing like a dollar bill.

Mr. T jacked up the stabilizers so high during the Big Winds that the first step was too high off the ground. Being the enterprizing sort of fellow he is, he put his tool box on the dirt to serve as a "pre-step." Bad idea--going down the steps, the tool box skidded right out from under his dainty boots and KAPOW! he rolled out of the Minnie. Unfortunately, he took the door handle aparatus with him--snapped it right off the door! (Mr. T is tuff and he is fine) A new part has been ordered but right now the RV has no access from the coach section.

Now--faced with a wide dirt road, nay, a very BOULEVARD!--out in the desert what is the natural instinct of one driving a trail-rated, hemi Jeep? FLOOR IT AND DRIVE LIKE A BAT OUT OF HELL!. It is simply what one does. Do you know at a high rate of speed one does not even feel the washboards? I think the dust kicked up might have been visible from space.

After the speedway the next maneuver was to do a few donuts--it's the proper order of things. And here is where I was the victim of some litterbug. Some scofflaw had left a crescent wrench on the desert floor where it got embedded in my poor Jeep's rear tire. All of a sudden, my cousin and I found ourselves a mile from our camp with the Jeep madly notifying me that the tire pressure was evaporating. The lights, the bells, the flashing message--the grim reality that we were dead in the water, uh, sand, with a very flat tire. Sigh and alas....

The Sandster(cousin) was not to be deterred. She FLAGGED DOWN the first pick up that came along. Oh my--pass me mah salts. These men--who were actually very helpful gentlemen--looked like recruits from the neighboring Manson Ranch. It really is amazing how many tattoos the human arms can accommodate. They offered to change our tire but the Sandster just jumped in the back of the pick up and asked them to give us a ride up to our campsite. I had no choice but to follow. I have never hitchhiked and was unfamiliar with the protocol. Not the Sandster! Oh no--we arrived back at the camp with her yelling "Oh boys! hello there!" I felt the husbands gave the strange pick up with woman waving and yelling from the back an entirely too enthusiastic greeting before they recognized their wives. However, we thanked our rescuers and paid them off with bottles of Rattlesnake beer--the typical currency of the desert.

While we recovered with well-deserved gin and tonics, the men headed across the desert to fix the Jeep and bring it back. All of us were amazed that the wrench was embedded so deeply in the tire.

And now we are back in SeniorLand. Easter is over although there are still the oddest decorations on the lawns. Has anyone yet figured out what bunnies have to do with the Feast of the Resurrection?