5. Help from Larry

Larry is my neighbor. He's younger, maybe 40 something, and has some disability (through SSI) that gives him enough money for rent and food, but little for extras like cigarettes, and an occasional bottle of cheap vodka. For these he does odd jobs around the mobile home park.

For years Larry has cut my grass and shoveled my snow. It was such a convenience and yet I successfully avoided looking at the person behind all these services. Recently this has changed.

Over the past few months Larry has become a major help for me in packing some of the heavier items, such as cabinets and books. Yesterday, we filled up six plastic 18-gallon boxes with piano and organ music. It was just impossible for me to choose what to keep and what to dispose of. So I choose to keep it all and decide later what to keep.

Left to myself this likely would not have gotten done so quickly. But by the simple expedient of asking for help, I had a super-energetic helper at my disposal. It's so strange. Years ago I had that kind of energy, that kind of drive. Yet today I proceed with more measured steps. So I cheat by asking for his assistance and in this way can expedite moving.

The unusually warm weather of 2007 has deprived him of the snow shoveling jobs that buy him an occasional package of Buglar tobacco. Also, he ran out of food stamps early this month and is living on the edge.

It takes me time to figure this all out, however. The one thing I definitely know is that I'm procrastinating and not getting things done. When I ask Larry for help, he graciously accepts and almost immediately the show gets on the road. We get the truck loaded up with boxes and agree to leave the following morning to take them to a storage unit.

I'm late as I pick him up and I selfishly decide to skip stopping for coffee to make up for time. It doesn't occur to me that maybe he has not eaten in the last day or two. When I stop at the Citgo station, I give him two dollars to buy a package of Buglar. By the time we arrive in Homer, I realize that I've forgotten the key for the storage unit. It's an upsetting moment until I remember that the spare key is stored in the lock box. At the bank. Just down the street from the only restaurant in town.

So we stop and I go into the bank while Larry rolls himself a cigarette and has a smoke. With great relief, I return with the key and we proceed to load the heavy boxes of music into the storage unit. When we return to the restaurant, I discover just how hungry this poor fellow is. Lunch is a buffet and we both sit down about 11:30 am. We begin with bowls of yummy potato soup and at this point everything is normal.

I proceed to the salad bar while Larry loads up at the hot bar with a heaping plate of chicken, noodles & pork, and mashed potatoes. By the time I have finished eating, Larry is ready for the salad bar. He eats with great deliberation and seems to savor each bite. Unlike the rest of us, eating appears to be a great sensory experience for him. After what seems like a long time, he goes back for seconds at the salad bar.

At this point, he pauses for a cigarette between courses. What saves me from boredom is the fact that we sat at the round table, where several local farmers were also sitting. There was Red, owner of O'Dells Grain Elevator, Fred (retired military), and Marty, a middle-aged divorced lady. Things were quiet that day in town and gossiping at the round table is always a good way to pass the time.

After we had covered everything possible in the world to talk about, I stared in disbelief as my friend went back for a forth trip. Back to the salad bar to load up on desert. I remember a huge pile of cottage cheese, together with pineapple chunks, shredded cheese, topped with frozen strawberries. By itself, it would have been adequate for a meal.

Again it was the same routine: eating slowly and savoring every bite. Was this some admonition from my departed mother who tried to get me to slow down while eating? ("See how it's done, dearie"). I both admired him for the manner in which he enjoyed his food and for the great slowness with which he ate. It was as if his whole life had been building up for this one gastric moment and he wasn't about to rush it. Rather, he was in a state of nirvana.

It is peculiar that as many times as I have been inside the Stagecoach Restaurant, I never noticed the shadow boxes tacked to the wall by each table. Larry noticed and commented on it. "How strange," I thought to myself, "that he sees this so clearly on his first visit when I have been oblivious to it." And then, to add insult to injury, he also notices with glee that there is an entire railroad track around the whole place! It is only then that Nelson, the owner, describes how they used to run the trains all the time and that the kids loved it.

Finally at 2:00 pm, a full two and a half hours later, he finished this great meal. A carry-out would have been appreciated, but Sharon (our waitress) advised that this was not possible. (Thank you, Sharon). Did I mention that Larry is very skinny? I consider that maybe he was of the snake family and only ate once a month or so.

I swear that what I have revealed is no exaggeration; my restaurant friends will back me up completely, as it was a topic of conversation when things got dull. But I have an appreciation for this person who is able to help me by his great enthusiasm for getting things done.

The power of people working together has been made clear to me through this experience. Helpful and courteous to the end, it was with regret that I said goodbye to him and marveled at how each one of us is a gift to the other.

4. Buyers Remorse

It isn't "buyers remorse". You have bought into the RV Fulltimer lifestyle and have no regrets. You paid your dues by doing the research, learning all about your rig, and taking little trips. You spent a couple of summers hanging out at the campground and begin to see that you really *could* live this way. And the people are friendly. They even bring out the friendly in you. No, you've done all the right things and you're only a couple of months away from launch date.

It's just a mild sadness. It's the end of a relationship: that old house and you, the familiar roads, the noisy neighbor, the pothole at the end of your street. It's all these familiar things that make up your life. It's the mail lady who never smiles, but never loses a piece of mail.

It's the poplar tree that sounds wonderful in the breeze, but drops sap on your car. It's the geese who visit during migration and leave little "gifts" on your sidewalk. It's these ordinary things that are being left behind.

It's hard to get excited about packing in such a mood. The piano music remains in the old wooden cabinet. It wouldn't take a lot of effort to pack, but it gets ignored. The books that should go to the used book store stay on the shelf, still dusty.

CDs and DVDs lay about in disorder. Temporarily. You're in a funk. Not a bad one, but a funk, nonetheless.

You trek out to the bookstore and pick out a few selections to review with a cup of coffee. You notice the snow has stopped. It's still cold outside. But the coffee is hot and it feels good to be in a familiar spot.

You're neither happy nor unhappy. You have a "ticket to ride" (as in the Beatles song) and you know the day is coming soon. But a part of you regrets the change. Regrets the loss of the familiar.

A Ticket to Ride. Like a date with destiny. A date to see the great places of the southwest. A date with Denali in Alaska. A date with the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico. A date with friends you haven't met yet. A date with the outdoors and hiking and picking apples off the tree.

A date with a whole *new* life. And you know you're excited. Except your mind hasn't quite caught on. Your mind wants yesterday. Your mind wants for everything to stay the same and never change.

How complicated we are sometimes. Having learned about visualization, it's understood that we are the masters of our lives. We aren't puppets; we have free will. We're intended to dream grand things and then go about making them come true.

That's our gift. We are creators of our lives and it's intended that we learn to be in control. Notwithstanding the guidance we are sometimes given, we should be about creating our dream. It's written in our DNA: "Master and Creator of the Universe". Or at least *our* little Universe.

So you have a last sip of coffee. Put aside the books. And leave the bookstore. Because you're about doing. The funk will pass soon. It's a fleeting attempt of the old "You" to preserve the past.

And You -- You know that the past doesn't exist. You live in the here and now. And You take control back because you have this incredible "Ticket to Ride". Your date with destiny. Grand things lie ahead and you know it.

3. Play the Game

So this was it. I could play the RV game and pretend to have great fun, great adventures. And the price of the game was to meet this undiscovered fear that I never knew existed. And so it went, day by day, reading of great trips, meeting new friends, having exciting adventures --- all to my great delight --- accompanied by an occasional glimpse of the "alone" fear, as it glanced over its shoulder at me.

I would have to face my fear. That's the purpose of the game.

Where were you, my intuition, when I needed you most? Could you not have whispered a word of encouragement or pointed a way out of the maze? Do you even exist? You leave me, like my fear, alone to decide. Alone to act and play the game or not, as I so choose. How alone is that?

Yet it has no fear connected to it. No panic. Just a decision that no one else is going to make for me. And I can deal with that. So I *will* play the game and when the boogie-man returns, face that when the time comes. I am not without fear, but I am not fearful either. The game can continue.

And so it did for a year. Two years. And on the third year a moment arrived when the game could become reality. If I choose. Was I alone for this moment? I can't be sure. Intuition had not been around much, and I was left to fend for myself. But it wasn't a fearful time.

When I found the fifth wheel that would become *my* fifth wheel --- when I talked to that man and heard the excitement in his voice describe all the neat goodies in this rig --- when that happened, I could feel both a joy and excitement deep inside. Was this you, intuition? Was this a sign? Are you talking to me again?

There was nothing to do, but to see the thing first-hand and make one of those command decisions. Knowing full well that in the blink of a moment the game would become reality. Excitement, laced with terror. The days passed, as I worked my way down to Benson, AZ to see this rig. My faithful little Honda carried me without complaint and I marveled that it could travel so far on a few tankfuls of gasoline. 2100 miles.

Half a continent. To me it felt like the other side of the world. The desert is no ordinary place. I tried to think of home, but it didn't exist anymore. It was like Michigan turned into a gigantic sink hole and there was no place to go back to. Yet, the strangest thing is that it didn't seem to matter. Home was not a place anymore, it was where I was at.

There was nothing to do but to continue on and live in the moment. There was no past. It ceased to exist as I drove through some super-sonic time wave and came out the other side in a different universe. No mere illusion, I could literally *feel* the past disappear. I was living in the now and there was no past. (Fortunately the fifth wheel owners were not disturbed by this and they appeared to be quite normal as I quietly contemplated all this).

When the decision was to be made, there was no doubt that this rig was meant for me. In my own mind, that is. There was a sense of excitement that may have been intuitive guidance, but I can't be sure. To add to the hilarity of the situation, I had been driving for many hours with my belt too tight. This had never occurred before.

But apparently after several days of nearly non-stop driving, my stomach decided to pay back this punishment by creating an intense pain. Clearly this is not how intuition communicates, so I charged ahead and consummated the deal.

That afternoon I called Dale, who was a mere 400 miles away in California. Of course he'd like to come out and see it, he said over the phone. So a day later, my RV mentor met me in the RV storage area and checked out my purchase. He quite approved and left me feeling that it had all been worthwhile.

The game had officially ended. The RV Game had become reality. As Dale and I parted ways, I pondered the meaning of this and of the hidden fear that I had discovered.

The words "It is finished" popped into my mind, like a joking biblical reference, and I thought "What is *that* all about?" Yet, while my pain persisted, my mind was relaxed. I would just have to take this one step and a time and not let it overwhelm me. Whatever had happened, I was happy with it.

Intuition would just have to get with the program if it disapproved. I had taken charge of the situation and hoped that it was with the guidance that I so often sought. For now, I had to return to the past. To find that place that no longer existed. With a sore stomach. But happy, nonetheless.

2. Intro to RV Lifestyle

But it hasn't worked that way. A messenger came in the form of a friend. Dale is one of those persons who has little regard for wealth. "Loser" he is called by some, since he tends to wander around. His last job was when he was 55 and now he's 74. Yet "Loser" is not the way I see him.

Dale is a friendly person, with a kind word for everyone. Over the last three years he has become my mentor. Mentor in the sense that he introduced me to the concept of fulltiming in one giant sweep, before I even knew much about RVing.

Dale had been gone for 8 or 9 months and suddenly reappeared at Patsy's Restaurant. That's my favorite haunt. Here I was sitting at the counter and in walks Dale as if he only left yesterday and sits next to me. During the ensuing hour he explained the whole concept to me.

And when the restaurant closed, we sat in his car and talked a couple hours more until my head was totally filled with new ideas. I left with these ideas and the name of a web site: escapees.com. That would change my life.

Intuition, this was like an end run, a "hail mary" out to left field. Was this your work? To what do I owe this event? There were no comets in the sky to signal an important event. Nor did you follow any of the procedures that I had learned earlier. Was this simply a cosmic accident and had no real importance? This was contrary to my plan for security.

So a decision was made: to play the game. To take the idea and toy with it. To consciously *not* take it seriously, but just make believe. And so I became a child again. There is a kind of joyous feeling that accompanies this childlike approach.

I agreed to pretend to become an adventurer and follow this imaginary path. The game began. And I read the escapee web site every day, as in a ritual. Little by little I could see myself in an imaginary vehicle, traveling the byways and crossing the country. I became strong as I climbed hills and hiked as the Wanderer (Lloyd) did.

I made friends and sat around the campfire telling stories. I saw the great sights of the National Parks and savored the essence of a creator who was kind enough to give us such beauty.

And then it happened. After many hours of collecting data and reading stories, I had an emotional crisis. The thought crossed my mind, ever so lightly, that some of these times I would be somewhere, totally alone. Not the same kind of alone when you curl up with a bowl of popcorn and watch a special TV program by yourself. No, Alone is the sense that you feel this profound loneliness. Where the darkness is so great that it devours the flashlight.

Where one comes to face the fact that not only do we come into the world alone, depart the world alone, but that we are surely alone in the dark of night as if there is no world at all. And I cursed this dastardly thought. Even as I knew it to be true, that I would have to face my fear to play the fantasy game.

Surely death is not so accursed. When we die, it is a return to the creator. We are back home again. We are no longer alone. But in life we have no such certainty. When the endless darkness surrounds us, we know only that we exist and there is a nagging doubt that perhaps there is nothing else. No other.

Alone is such a cold word, you can feel the frost emanating from the very letters. It is like cosmic space, filled with nothing and barely a degree above absolute zero. It is truly nothingness. And so that's it: I fear the vast nothingness of which alone is just a descriptor.

Had Dale come like some dark angel to cruelly help me discover my greatest fear? Was this a cosmic joke and I was the punchline? I wondered. Then, just as suddenly, the thought went away. The panic subsided.

But I knew then that the "alone" fear would one day return. It would have to be faced some dark day. More fearsome than death itself, I would have to pick up a lance, mount the steed, and face my challenger in a dual. But that would be another day.

I was thankful for the peace as this sense of terror left, granting me a few hours or days or weeks until it would return again. And like a man condemned to die, I breathed easily again, knowing my hour was not yet.

1. And So We Begin . . .

Intuition.

I deal with you every day. Searching the scaffolding of your heights. Spanning your arches and then plumbing your depths. You are the hidden guide without a voice. Who guides me in strange and mysterious ways. I know not your purpose, yet sense your presence. Who are you, who propels me in this strange direction? To what end? What knowledge of the future is in your sails, that would carry me from place to place, land to land?

My religion has not prepared me for you. Nor my parents, who only alluded to your existence. No admonition to follow your intuition; only acknowledgement of your existence. And now, too late, I can not ask what I should have, years ago. The self I think of as "me" supposes that some person is in command. I beg to differ. I only pretend to be the commander of this ship.

Some other force appears to be calling the shots; too many things have come about quite by chance. And when I truly have to make a command decision, the awareness begins that two of us are needed to steer the rudder. This "guide" who only hints in the most subtle way a suggestion here, a thought there, a feeling that is less than a thought. How do I decode your messages?

These pushes, these nudges. They come at times of their own choosing. Not as a plan, but as a step. A single step, isolated, out of context with everything else. And I can only guess that this is not some piece of indigestion, or hiccup in thinking that I am feeling.

To know who you are, I ask simple questions:

"Who will this hurt?"
"How does this affect the lives of those around me?"
"Does it break any laws?"
"Is it harmful to my self?"

And if no harm can be found and no laws broken, then perhaps it won't hurt to accept this guidance one more time. It's probably a good thing. It won't do any harm to try it. Then yes, I let intuition be the tillerman for a little while more. Accepting the bidding of some divine source. And look to the horizon to see from whence I came and to where I go.

My plan had been to horde my money for a rainy day. To settle in and wait for old age . . . and finally death . . . to claim me. Safe. Secure. A moment of bored safety while awaiting conversion to dust. It had a comfortable sense to it, too.

People would call me smart for being conservative with money. My nieces & nephews would call me generous as they raced to spend my money. And everyone would be happy.