Multitasking on the road

Greetings from someplace in Arizona. Yes, I am back in the brutally hot sunshine state. I guess soon every state will be brutally hot, but probably after I'm dead, so at least I don't have to live through that. This is bad enough. I'm doing my Goldilocks routine again, searching for a place that's not too hot and not too cold. Like most hothouse flowers, I require optimal temperatures to feel my best. 

I'm in Prescott, hanging out at a park with all the other travelers who live in their cars. I have figured out my wild camping routine. Wild camping means finding places to park overnight in a city. First, I search Google Earth for a park with a big parking lot. Street parking is no good. You can't deploy solar panels across from somebody's house. They will think you are stalking their children. In a park parking lot, normies come and go, doing their pet-walking, jogging, or biking thing. The ones who stay all day are people like me, the ones who would rather not waste gasoline driving all over the state just to charge up their batteries. I'm sitting in the sweltering shade of my car with a solar panel spread out on the roof. The battery that powers my fridge is slowly sipping power from the sun. Meanwhile I'm blogging. Look at me go, I'm a multitasker.

After my cross-country expedition, I still have no answers about where to look for housing. All the states I visited are lovely in the fall, but would not suit me in the summer or winter. California is beyond reach, financially, so that leaves Washington and Oregon. Both states are gloomy, but of the two, Oregon is a little less gloomy. Bright side: As long as I'm mobile, if the weather sucks, I can move on.

Happy birthday to me. I'm 68. Sometimes birthdays invite a reflection on the past year. In my case, I'm inspired to consider my entire past, the choices, events, and circumstances that led me to this lifestyle. I might add a page to my blog chronicling my timeline. I assume nobody will read it, or when they arrive there by accident, they will read two lines and quickly click away to assuage their boredom on another website. The timeline would be for me. There will come a day when I won't be able to pull together a timeline. Even now, the sequence and details of events are hazy. People and pets are fading into the mist. Certain events—my cat's death, COVID, and my mother's death, for instance—are gashes in the timeline, leaving a lingering trauma that probably will outlive me, but dates sometimes get fuzzy. 

I still can't believe this is my life. Sometimes shock hits me. The surreality of this existence flows over me like a massive wave, driving me deep, so I can't breathe for a moment. Then I surface and get on with things: Do I need water, do I need to dump trash, is my fridge powered up, do I have clean clothes, is there gas in the tank. The minutae of my daily life, just moving from task to task, getting it done, not thinking too much except beyond the next few minutes. 

There are people like me everywhere. Now I can spot them easily. Most of them aren't in soccer mom vans, but their ineptly made window covers are a clue. A rooftop box, a hitch box carrying a portable generator, a general dustiness, back window piled high with blankets... When the occupant gets out of a car and brushes his teeth with a bottle of water, spitting in the sand at a rest area, you can figure he is a nomad. 

Where do we go when the park closes? Thanks for asking. Walmarts used to open their parking lots to vehicles of all sizes. Not any more. Many Walmarts have posted signs to indicate they don't allow overnight parking of any kind, probably from all the shootings and trash. Those rascally nomads. Sometimes Walmart allows cars but not RVs and trucks. Sometimes there is a fringe of unpatrolled spaces in the wayback, where the riffraff is allowed to park. Back east, Walmarts were much friendlier to overnighters. Here in the west, not so much. However, you can almost always park overnight at a home improvement store, if you don't mind the employees who come and go in shifts all night long. After about 3:00 a.m., you will be the only car in the parking lot. If you don't mind that, for a few hours, it's quite peaceful. The other standby is Cracker Barrel, traditionally a welcoming respite for overnighters. 

In some ways, I am invisible. Older white gal in a nondescript white minivan. There are thousands of us cruising the streets of America. Not all of us live in our cars, but possibly more than you would think. In January I will find them in Quartzsite, Arizona, the traditional winter home of nomads. They will come from all over the country seeking desert sun. I will find my tribe there, and the moments of surreality will fade for a while. When everyone is living in their car, suddenly this lifestyle is normal, and it's all of you stick-and-brick folks who are the weirdos. 

Outer solar system or bust

When I was an adolescent, I shared a room with my sister. A large black fly got in through the window and hung around. We named it Fred. Fred was big and slow, and he didn't make a mess. Fred was a perfect pet. One day our father visited us in our room after work. He was still wearing his senior trooper uniform and tall boots. Fred made the mistake of flying by, and our father clapped his hands. In a moment, Fred was flattened. 

"Dad, that was Fred!" we cried. Dad looked both surprised and sheepish. He probably thought he was doing us a favor. I don't recall if we had a funeral. I'll have to ask my sister. If she's still talking to me.

Despite misgivings from family, I'm firmly committed to continuing my epic roadtrip. After Portland, I headed east and then I turned north, hoping to avoid the heat wave that was coming to the west. I passed through Spokane and then crossed the border into Idaho. I spent the night in Coeur d' Alene. After the artsy energy of Spokane, Coeur d'Alene felt lacking for some reason, or maybe it was just the uneasy night I spent alone in a Fred Meyer parking lot. In any case, I didn't feel a connection to that city, so onward I went. I crossed the Idaho panhandle, winding through spectacular forests, thinking, oh boy, one tossed cigarette and we are literally toast. Note to self: avoid living in a fire zone. And on a flood plain. And while you are making a list, try to avoid earthquake fault lines, tsunami zones, tornado alley, and gulf coast hurricanes. I guess that leaves Corvallis.  

I made it as far as Missoula, MT, before the wildfire smoke in western Montana caught up with me. I checked the smoke map and saw that I was caught in a eastward drifting plume. I liked Missoula. Charming college town. I'd never live there in the winter, not being a cold weather person, but in the summer, it would be a great retreat from the Arizona heat. I would have stayed longer if not for the smoke. After two days, I left Missoula and kept going east, hoping to outrun the smoke plume, if not the heat. 

I found a place to park in Bozeman that felt pretty good. In the morning, smoke obscured the view of the mountains. My lungs and eyes were burning. I had planned to stay another night, but I was more interested in breathing, so I filled up the gas tank and hit the road, thinking, Billings, maybe Billings. 

The smoke map showed Billings on the edge of the smoke plume. Argh. I'd asked the long-suffering GPS lady to lead me to a mall, and she delivered. I parked in the lot outside the main entrance and checked the smoke map. I could have gone indoors and breathed fresh air-conditioned air along with a thousand other pairs of lungs. But what about after the mall closed? Where would I go? Assuming I wanted to avoid spending $150 on a motel room. 

It didn't take long to figure out Billings was not going to be safe, so I got more gas and resumed my route on 94 east. A few hours later, I fetched up in Miles City, Montana. The sky was clear when I got here at about 1:00. The temperature was a toasty 92°F, hotter than the Oregon coast, but not as hot as Phoenix. 

Now I'm sitting on a side street around the corner from Walmart, parked in the shade, waiting for the sun to go down, and wondering if I could get in trouble for transporting flies across state lines. 

Yes, I've unintentionally picked up a few winged hitchhikers on my journey. Usually my windows are closed when I'm driving to avoid losing my nice cool AC air. However, when I stop, when it's hot, I have to open the windows or run the risk of melting in my own juices. Right now my door is open and I've given up the fight. I've been overrun by flies. Not biting flies, not giant cluster flies, not slow and lazy flies. Just zippy little dudes curious to see what new smells and tastes have come into their territory. Yum! I have given up trying to shoot them with my only weapon:  a little plastic spray bottle of 70% rubbing alcohol. They seem impervious, and I'm almost out of ammo. It's hard to type with flies crawling on my arm and dive bombing my head. I don't know why I think my life is more important than theirs, but I'd still like to murder them. Sadly, they outnumber me, and they are fast. If only I had wings. Or some better ammo. 

Speaking of wings, I'm on my epic roadtrip, as I mentioned, and it seems some of my family aren't exactly happy with my bid for freedom. My theory is that they are envious because I'm free to travel and they are not. I'm trying not to let their fear and criticism stop me from enjoying my adventure. I imagine a rubberband stretched between me and the west coast. The further I push eastward, the tighter the band stretches. 

"Why don't you go back to Oregon?" family said.

I said, "What's in Oregon?"

"What if you get sick? What if you break down?"

"Medicare and road side assistance," I replied.

"What do you want?" they said. "What are you running away from?"

Those questions flummoxed me, so I consulted a friend to help. "Adventure and nothing," she texted.

I got back on the other text thread. "Adventure and nothing," I typed into the text window.

After some more back and forth during which I felt the box around me tightening, I finally texted, "Why don't you want me to have my adventure?"

After a few beats, the message came back: "Go, have your adventure! Have fun!" The subtext, I think, if I'm reading the faint smudges between the lines correctly is, go, have your adventure, even though I'm stuck here. Go, have fun, even though I'm not having any. 

I almost caved. I almost turned around, partly to assuage the fears of family, and partly because the smoke was getting to me. I started getting scared. Even though I know only the courageous cross the Continental Divide, doubt and fear cluttered my mind. 

Then I thought, when am I ever going to have another chance like this? If not now, when? I didn't get my adventure when my family member got theirs, gallivanting overseas. Did I worry? Of course! But I never said, don't go, better go back to Oregon where it's safe. I spent five increasingly intense years taking care of our mother. Five years during which I was blissfully unaware of all the physical maladies that would soon plague me. (Well, except for the vertigo, which started in 2015, but certainly all my other infirmities weren't yet on my radar.) 

Let's face it, sooner or later, if we live long enough, we become the primary adult caregivers in our own lives. I feel old age breathing down my neck. Decrepitude, dementia, and broken hips are just around the corner. Soon I won't be able to attempt a journey like this one. So, let the adventure continue! Next stop: outer solar system, or the Enchanted Highway, whichever comes first!

Finding myself in the now

One thing I've disccovered about living in a car is that my environment requires me to be present in the moment. Being present has never been my preference. In fact, I've gone to great lengths to avoid being present. For many years, I was a bystander in my own life. Back then, I didn't realize how great I had it—I was born in the right place (the U.S.) in the right time (the late 1950s) to loving if mostly out-to-lunch parents. I went to a mediocre public school, learned right from wrong (although I frequently chose wrong), and I had the right color skin (pale, prone to freckles). I was lucky on so many levels, but all I could see was what I lacked. In my self-centered distress, I did whatever I could to check out. 

Now, living in my car, I can't check out of anything. That is a byproduct of mobile living. I drive a lot. Checking out while I'm driving is not wise. About fifteen years ago, I had a dissociative episode while driving at night in rainy fog, and it freaked me out, but good. I did not know if I was driving a car or snuggled at home in bed. I wasn't sure I was conscious. I was not even sure I existed. I made it to the Christmas party, but that experience left a mark. Now I make sure I am parked before dark. 

Now-ness is physical. I am reminded of the physicality of my existence every time I pee in a jar or poop in a plastic bag. There is no handle to flush away the bioreality of my disgustingly repetitious human systems. I live in a perpetual hazmat zone. 

Preparing food is a Tetris game. There isn't enough room in this small space to lay out everything I need all at once. To use that thing, I have to move this thing. Everything happens on the bed, well, I think of it as a couch. The dry things come out of ziploc bags. Those must be stowed in their cubby before I can add the wet things. Adding blueberries is easy. Apples are a little more complicated, requiring a chopping board and a knife. Everything has a place, and everything has to go back in its place the moment I'm done with it, otherwise I will cave under a tsunami of stuff. The things that don't have places clutter up the aisle. I hate that. I'm gradually paring my possessions down to essentials, like a hiker packing to trek the PCT. 

On the bright side, I'm learning the beauty of now. I think it's hilarious. Now-ness is the temple of meditators, not of senior nomads like me. Well, I should speak for myself. It could be that all other senior nomads spend an hour meditating on their yoga rug before they hit the road. Not me. When I wake up, usually it's time to beat it, before some homeowner looks out their window and says, honey, that van is still there, do you think we should call the police? Sometimes I sleep at stores that allow overnight parking. I don't like the feeling of waking up to find my car surrounded by employee cars. I feel like a lazy bum. They are all in there working before dawn has cracked, and here I am rolled up in my blankets like a mole in a burrow, hidden (I hope) behind my homemade window covers. 

But this is where I am, in the now. It's confounding to be this present. I'm coping the way I always have, by pretending I'm not here, this isn't me, it's someone else living this bizarre life, dealing with the fallout of the structural shortage of affordable housing. 

The apartment manager I talked to last week said she was in the same boat. 

"I'm getting old," she said. "Sooner or later, I'll have to stop working. My apartment comes with this job. Where will I go then?"

"They need to build more affordable housing," I said. 

"They never will," she said. "They don't care about people like us. We don't matter."

I left feeling somewhat vindicated that I am not the only Debby Downer in the world, but also thinking, crap, I could be living in my car for a long time before my name bubbles to the top of a wait list somewhere. 

So, let me channel the optimist in me: I have a working car that should last a while (having spent $2,400 last week to make sure), I have money in the bank, and I have few obligations. I don't know how you would interpret these three facters, but to me, they all add up to one thing: road trip! 

Follow that pilot car

This week I've been diligently performing my role as pilot car. Being the pilot car means I'm a leader, not a follower, or I guess you could say, first I'm a leader, and then I'm the ultimate follower, after I pull over into the slow lane and let all the traffic behind me speed by. But until there's a passing lane or nice long turnout, everyone is stuck behind me, and I'm the leader. I take my role seriously, setting the pace just under the speed limit. Except on downhill grades, when with a gravity assist, my old car can get up a head of steam. 

In addition, to being a pilot car, I have other roles I'm diligently performing. For example, I've already mentioned I'm a traveler on the road less traveled. What that means is I don't tend to conform to norms. I live by another set of rules. Oh, don't get excited, that doesn't mean I am a jerk (at least not intentionally). The rules I live by have to do with things like freedom, autonomy, and independence. I guess you could call those principles, rather than rules. Rules are, like, get a good job, find proper housing, and don't pick your teeth at the dinner table. Principles are more along the lines of live and let live, let your freak flag fly, that sort of thing. 

I take my role as a nonconformist as seriously as I do my role as pilot car. When you feel called to do something, probably you should do your best at it. Hm. Well, when I write something like that, being a professional devil's advocate, I always see the loophole punched by Satan, if there is such a thing. Like, if I wanted to be a dictator, should I strive to be the best dictator I can be? Or, if I want to build a house in a sensitive ecosystem, I should strive to build the biggest bestest house I can? Hm. Clarity eludes me. I'm hot. My portable fan died. It gets really hot and stuffy in my car before the sun goes down. It's hard to think coherently, much less write. 

I drove from Bend to Portland today. I've been to Bend once before, in the early 1990s, I think. I didn't recognize the place. It looks like they took Portland and plopped it down in the high desert. Once I got outside the city limit, though, I recognized the high desert terrain. My grandfather used to run cattle on the range outside of Prineville. As I strolled along 97 with a train of cars and trucks behind me, I saw many herds of cattle, but also what looked like groups of wild horses. The land is breath-takingly beautiful, if you like wide expanses of dried grass punctuated by withered trees, dark green bushes, and scrubby brush, with forested mountains in the distance. Nary a cactus in sight. It's beautiful. It's also blazing hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. Lucky for me, I happened along on a relatively mild day. Blue sky, fluffy clouds, not too hot once the sun came up. 

I'd forgotten how majestic Mt. Hood is coming at it from the east. That is one impressive peak. Highway 26 winds over it's southern shoulder, uphill and downhill around curves with scary dropoffs. Views of the mountain appear through gaps in tall timber. Sadly, I couldn't saunter to appreciate the sights because of the train behind me. There's not much snow on the mountain this time of year, but this road goes through the snow zone. Glad I didn't have to chain up (I don't carry tire chains), I stopped at the rest area at Government Camp. The women's restroom was equipped with two long wooden benches, I assume for outdoor enthusiasts to remove their skis and snowshoes before using the facilities. 

Last this week, I left Eugene feeling I'd done my due diligence. Not the place for me. I returned to Portland, picked up my meds, and hit the road. I took a day trip to Maryhill Museum up the Columbia River Gorge. I spent one more night in Portland, and decided to visit some towns between Portland and the coast. Then I thought, well, as long as I'm halfway to the coast, I might as well go all the way. I meandered over to Florence and stayed at the Chinook Winds Casino with dozens of motorhomes and trailers, the occupants of which (I assume) spent most of their in the casino gambling, smoking, eating, or whatever people do in a casino. From my perch on the edge of the upper parking lot, past the rooftops of cars and timeshares I could see ocean for miles. 

I took time in Florence to look at a possible low-income senior housing option I'd found on one of those apartment listing websites. The onsite manager laughed when I asked about a one-bedroom apartment. 

"We have 250 people on the waitlist, honey," she said. "Residents have to die before a vacancy opens up. It could be several years. Priority is given to victims of domestic violence."

I realized then something I should have seen weeks ago: All the listings for rentals shown on the apartment rental sites are bogus. It's all a clickbait scam. Not one of those listings has a vacancy, and most of them have closed their waitlists. On the bright side, if there is such a thing, I'm number 29 on a waitlist for a place in Junction City. That's something. Not sure what. 

I went south on 101. At Reedsport, I headed inland to explore Roseburg. From there I drove through Grants Pass, Medford, and Ashland. I spent a cold rainy night at the Welcome to Oregon Travel Center, and from there drove a long lonely road through big trees to Klamath Falls. After eyeballing Klamath Falls and finding it lacking, I moseyed on up to Bend and spent the night parked on a peaceful side street next to the Sheriff's automotive facility. 

I'm done looking for "traditional" housing for now. I've spent a lot of time and gas driving in circles in places I don't care for, just to conform to the be sheltered at all costs mandate that pervades my local zeitgeist. I'm shooing away the black cloud of despair. If I'm meant to be housed, I will be housed. Meanwhile I will keep living my life as creatively as I know how, no matter how many people I piss off, no matter how many cars stack up behind me. I lead the way on the road less traveled. Come along, if you want. Or not. You free spirit, you. 

I choose the road less traveled

As I was sitting at a laundromat in Anytown, USA, yesterday, washing my skivvies with the neighborhood hoi polloi, I saw the photo of my mother that I taped in the front of my calendar. I remembering taking that photo. I was standing outside her retirement home window, which was in lockdown from COVID-19. In the photo, she's smiling and waving at me, as if she hadn't seen me in days (I visited daily), as if I were a long-lost friend, as if I were something special. I look at that photo often.

My mother had many friends, and she kept in touch with them until dementia claimed her free will. I don't know how she did it. Maybe that's because I am a diehard introvert, and she was a diehard extravert. Having friends probably made her marriage tolerable. Having friends probably gave her respite from child-rearing, a job I don't think she really wanted. 

Over the course of her life, she gathered a group of high school buddies, a cohort of nursing classmates, and a posse of librarians, and she took time to nurture those friendships, mostly in the form of sending cards and calling on the phone. Later, she learned how to butcher an email, but by then her brain cells were in tatters. 

She went to high school with a bunch of girls, who met every few years at Shari's for lunch. This must have been an elite bunch. I don't remember meeting more than one or two of these gals, ever. 

I was more familiar with her nursing classmates. She attended nursing school in the 1950s with a small tight-knit gaggle of tough women who went on to work, get married, have kids, and retire. They dragged their husbands to annual reunions, some of which were at our house, spread out on card tables in the backyard under the maple tree. The nursing classmates even had a round-robin letter to keep everyone updated on the news: whose husband had died, who broke a hip, whose kid got into rehab, who got Alzheimers, who was in a carehome, in lockdown, incommunicado. 

The librarians met for book discussions and pie, again, at Shari's, once in a while at Red Lobster. I had moved away by this time in my mother's friendship continuum, so I only knew the librarians by name. 

One by one, the friends died. Mom was not the last friend standing, but by the time she came to the end of her road, she couldn't correspond with anyone. She could barely remember who they were, even with photo-prompting. (She always knew me, a fact for which I am grateful.)

I look at my tiny circle of friends, dwindling year by year, and think, I am not rich in friends the way my mother was. She once told me to have friends, you have to be a friend. I try to be a good friend to the friends I have, but I don't have many. I'm realizing having only a few friends puts pressure on the few I have. With more friends, I could distribute my complaining more equitably, so no one person has to bear the burden. 

I think when I finally find a place to land and settle, I can apply myself to the task of growing my friend circle. If I can stand to reach outside my comfortable solitude, that is. 

Speaking of settling, I spent a week driving in circles in the Eugene metro area, verbally abused by the GPS lady, whose passive aggressive use of the bong sound is starting to get under my skin. I would probably hear that sound less often if I obediently followed her instructions without question, but sometimes that arrogant GPS lady is wrong. I admit, though, as I putter along the neighborhood streets, waiting for the cue "Turn here" and hoping I choose the correct driveway, I'm thankful for her guidance. I can't imagine what my life would be like trying to plot my route on a Thomas guide. The single best invention ever was the GPS lady. If the internet ever goes belly up, I'm going to park somewhere and get a bicycle. 

I don't like Eugene, just to let you know. I did my best to like it. I kind of liked its blue-collar neighbor, Springfield. Cottage Grove, Junction City, and Veneta are kind of charming. The problem is, there's no housing that I can afford. The few facilities earmarked low-income senior housing seem to have wait lists with more than fifty people ahead of me. There's no sense skulking around Eugene, hoping something will come open. It could take years. The fear foisted upon me by friends and family almost made me think I could tolerate the hell of sleeping at Home Depots until some facility called, just so maybe in a few years, I would not be homeless. 

Nope. No can do. Life moves on, and I'm going with it.

This is a very odd life. But it is what I have right now, so it's up to me to live it as creatively as I can, no matter what other people think of my choices.

The gift horse can sometimes tear your lips off

I'm coming to you from Track Town, USA, otherwise known as Eugene, Oregon. The weather finally cooled enough for me to leave the misty gray coastline and head inland to look for housing options in the Willamette Valley. I'm not sure this area is the right place for me, but it feels more right than Arizona or Texas. 

Every time I leave a safe haven, I feel a surge of trepidation. It's stressful not knowing where I am going to park at night. Oregon so far has been much less friendly toward nomads, compared to Arizona. The "no overnight parking" signs are hard to miss. It's clear some nomads ignore them, but I am not charmed at the prospect of getting "the knock," especially after I'm asleep. So, when I see those signs, I check the apps and look for other options in the vicinity. So far, I've been able to find places, although last night I tried three locations before I felt I was safe enough and legal enough to park without hassle.

My much-adored cousin arrived at the beach house on Monday. We spent time walking on the beach. She gave me the tour of the town. I saw some of the local sights. We talked a lot. Well, after a while, she talked a lot, and I listened. She had a lot to say. As I listened to her tell me the minutae of dividing and selling the acreage of her parent's house in Portland, I realized we had never spent that much time together, alone, just the two of us.  

My cousin did everything right in her life. She went to college, learned a useful skill, applied it for her entire career, and retired with a pension. Along the way, she married, had two kids, built wealth, and got divorced. Then she inherited some wealth. Newly retired, she now has two houses and the financial freedom to do as she pleases. Her health is excellent, she said. Perfect cholesterol, no heart problems, no osteoporosis, definitely no vertigo, and what's more, she's recently lost twenty pounds. She was triumphant that her skinny pants finally fit. If only her kids weren't a bit messed up, life would be perfect. (I'm so glad I'm a childless cat lady!)

On Wednesday, I volunteered to help her fetch a carload of firewood from a local friend's woodpile. She planned to use it in her woodstove. As she drove through the forest, she kept up chirpy patter about the houses and the people of the area. I can't match chirpiness. Little Mary Sunshine I am not. Even on a good day, I just don't have the energy. I started to feel a bit bludgeoned by her chirpiness even before we arrived at a huge house recently built on the edge of forestland. New sprinklers watered new grass. Beyond the grass was a narrow forest of tall timber. Beyond that was a view of the Pacific Ocean. 

The homeowners were outside puttering in their yard when we pulled in. My cousin turned her ebullience on them. After introductions, they ignored me. I stood nearby and looked at the trees. 

Eventually we got busy loading wood into her car. Her exuberance transferred to throwing wood enthusiastically into a wheelbarrow and then ramming the wheelbarrow up a short incline to the car. Her movements were punctuated by frequent utterances to show she was on top of it: "there!" she said a few times. "There!" I started thinking maybe I wasn't moving fast enough and stepped up my game. Then I thought, this is stupid. I'm overweight, out of shape, and plagued by an irregular heartbeat. No way was I going to keel over and have them trip the air raid siren to call out the local volunteer EMT. So embarrassing. 

I slowed to a steady pace. As we filled the car to the ceiling with wood, I made a remark about making sure the wood was secure in back so if she slammed on the brakes, we wouldn't get plastered against the dashboard.

"You always look on the dark side, don't you?" she said as she crammed more wood into the car. 

I should have made a joke at that point. If I weren't so irked, I would have come up with something goofy to show I was impervious to her mild criticism. I know she stabbed me in a loving way, as only family can do.

I can't say she's wrong. I do have some skill at playing devil's advocate. It's a special knack of mine. However, having been a school bus driver, I know what happens to precious cargo when you slam on the brakes. That is what I said.

"Oh, I didn't know you drove a school bus," she said. 

Today as I drove through the back country southwest of Eugene (yes, I took a wrong turn, but yes, it sure is pretty country), I thought about how every inch of this land is claimed and conquered by people who were smart enough to be born into wealth or who had worked a good job, saved their money, and bought land. Or who had married someone who owned land. Lots of ways to get a piece of the American dream, it seems. Unless you are trudging the road less traveled. 

"I recognize I come from a place of privilege," my cousin admitted after she described her opinion of the nation's housing shortage. She didn't blame me for my situation, but she didn't have much empathy to offer, either, which is all I wanted. Most of my friends and family wish I'd just settle for some kind of shelter and get on with life, so they don't have to worry about me anymore.

To that I would say (if I were asked), your fear is not making my situation any better. I'm beginning to realize, for most people, fear of homelessness is the ultimate existential fear. Possibly worse than climate change. 

I need to stop whining. My loved ones can't fix the housing shortage, so instead, they try to fix me. That's what loved ones do. It's the American way. 

There's a saying: You can't go to the hardware store for bread. There's another saying: Expectations are premeditated resentments. I brought my own, so I deserve what I get. 

Wandering but not quite lost

I’m writing to you from Bureau of Land Management (BLM) desert land outside of Quartzsite, Arizona. BLM land out here occupies many square miles. You can drive forever on dirt roads, although the further you go, the more you need four-wheel drive. My city minivan would not survive most of those roads. Being a sedate older person not looking to drive off a cliff, I keep to the flats not far out of town.

I am parked about a half mile from the freeway, near a shallow wash and a copse of scrubby trees, about one hundred yards from a herd of half-million dollar Prevosts towing toy haulers. Earlier they were racing their toys around the desert landscape. Now the happy campers seem to be setting off fireworks. I don’t know why people bring their entire house with them to go camping. On the other hand, nights in the desert are dark, cold, and endless. I suppose it helps to have heat, cold beer, and a big screen TV.

Yes, it’s a bit chilly in my car at night, but I’m not complaining. I hear Portland is 16°F, with snow, freezing rain, and high winds. Other parts of the country are suffering extreme winter weather as well. If that is your situation, I’m sorry. Especially if you are living in your car.

Speaking of living in a car, I am not living in my car. Yet. I’m on my second official roadtrip, on my way to Los Angeles by way of Quartzsite, AZ. I have found my tribe here in Quartzsite, but in true apanthropist fashion, I don’t want to have anything to do with them. I got my name badge at the RTR, saw the interiors of Sprinters, cargo vans, and minivans designed by some proud nomads, and listened to a woman in a long gauzy skirt make noise, oh excuse me, soothing healing sounds, by pounding on some large bronze shields with a fluffy mallet. I left as soon as I could.

I did not grown up in a camping family, so camping is a mystery to me. My mother camped with her parents and brother. Then she married a non-camping enthusiast and had four kids. It’s not that my father lacked an adventuresome spirit. He had a boat for a while, a 24-foot Thompson with a throbbing stern drive. He took me out on the Columbia River Slough once. We broke down. A nice lady in a little motorboat towed us back to the dock. Then on the next outing, he hit a half-submerged log and busted the sterndrive. Soon after, he sold the boat. He never talked about it, but I am guessing he was sad the dream ended the way it did.

I never wanted a boat. Neither have I had a hankering to camp. I like to hike, but not if I have to dodge snakes or climb over boulders. I was born and raised a city kid, which is why being out here in the open desert freaks me out. The quality of darkness outside my covered windows is more than I can bear to think about. When the wind scoots under the car, I feel a momentary change in my heart rate. Every little rustle could be a packrat eating my wires. A couple nights ago a storm blew through and carried my tarp and welcome mat into my neighbor’s campground. Anita from Missouri. She parked way too close to me, so I befriended her in self-defense. Widow, two kids, long-time camping enthusiast. I vacated to a more peaceful location the next day, which is where I am now.

I can see why people buy bigger and bigger vehicles. This minivan is a very small space, crammed with way too much stuff. If I were inclined to claustrophobia, I would never be able to do this. However, I’m fine with MRI machines and small minivans. I will probably wake up in my coffin and go ho hum. Not really. I hope to donate my body to science and avoid the entire coffin thing.

I feel somewhat like a pioneer might have felt. Did I bring enough food? Can my oxen pull this wagon? Will my solar panel charge up my Jackery or will clouds get in the way? Where can I dump my trash when the transfer station is only open three days a week? Will I have enough cell signal to get phone service, and how close am I to running out of my monthly quota of data? You know. Pioneer problems.

Why do some people glorify this lifestyle? It’s homelessness. You should have seen the interiors of some of those rigs. They looked like garbage dumps, festooned with fake ivy garlands, carpeted with Persian rugs and fake vinyl plank flooring, and reeking of incense, cooked onions, and poop.

After seeing all that stuff, I am more determined than ever to continue my commitment to downsize. I sense I am headed off a cliff of minimalism. It’s been a gradual slope at first, but the incline is getting steeper as I am coming to accept that I cannot maintain a life full of stuff. I feel a mild panic attack lurking just out of reach. Time to pee in my bucket, turn on my heating pad, and hit the foam rubber. Happy trails.

The annoying choice between safe and happy

I had a birthday this week. To celebrate, I treated myself to the trifecta. I don't mean I went horse racing. I mean, I sidled on down to my pharmacy and got the COVID-19 booster in my right arm and the flu and RSV shots in my left arm. Then I went home and descended into the misery I so righteously sought and deserved. I can hear what you are saying right now. Just because your friend E got all three and bounced back like a Bobo Doll doesn't mean you can do the same. E is six years your junior! Come on, Carol. Get real!

Clearly, even at this ripe stinky old age, I still have a lot to prove. 

What did I prove? I am a superhero. After a day and night of fairly intense suffering (it's all relative, isn't it?), I emerged stronger, straighter (in a postural sense), and buoyed with optimism. Invincible is how I feel. Confident enough to keep my tube of Preparation H in the same jar as my Crest Cavity Protection. That's pretty darn cocky for someone on the glaucoma watch list.

As is normal for a chronic malcontent, my unearned sense of optimism wore off fast. Now I'm back to my usual gloomy self. The alarm clock in my head relentlessly chimes once or twice per minute of every waking hour. I can't say for sure what happens after I finally fall asleep, but judging by the amount of time I spend awake and staring out the bathroom window at the stars, I'm guessing the alarm rings while I'm sleeping, too. During the day, like for instance, right now while I'm typing, I can tune it out. But when I'm lying on my foam rubber mattress on the floor, the noise in my head is deafening. I wish I were deaf, but I have a feeling this kind of sound is the kind you hear through your eight cranial nerve. Sort of like the way trash truck noises travel through the floor of the trailer at 4:00 a.m. and permeate my bones. Oh, the humanity.

It's so fun to hear other people express righteous anger on my behalf. I have to remind myself, though, that they might possibly be right. I'd rather not consider that possibility. Some of their suggestions are downright annoying. For example, people give me suggestions (advice) on everything from eating to dressing to finding a home to managing my healthcare. Some of it I've heard since I was a kid, so it's easy to tune it out—get a job, wear a bra, grow your hair, learn to type, draw flowers and fairies. Lately, I've been told to apply for senior housing, move closer to family, put my art on t-shirts, be more assertive, sell on BookTok . . . The list goes on and on. I suppose I do the same to them, so I fair's fair.

I usually fall into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. Later I berate myself for once again falling into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. It's futile, yet I still slip and fall right in. More like I dive in headfirst. I'm self-trained to defend first and self-berate later. And of course, because I live in constant doubt, I wonder, are they right? Is the problem that my hair is too short? Or I don't eat the flesh of dead creatures who would prefer to still be living? Or that I should just accept where I am, even though I don't like this town, and focus on being safe, forget about being happy? 

I've done so many things wrong in my life, it's easy to nod and say, you're right, I'm sure you are right. Everything would be different if I just put on a bra once in a while. Or stopped picking my teeth with toothpicks. Or yelled at my doctors instead of sucking it up and whining to any friend who will listen. 

In the end, with all the noise in my head, I can't hear my own voice among the voices of all my well-meaning advisors, mentors, and fixers. How much of my predicament is the product of a lifetime of thoughtless choices, and how much is attributable to a structural problem in the U.S. affordable housing market? I read an article today about someone who works in Los Angeles but has to live 100 miles away to find affordable housing. That's a 2- to 3-hour commute! I did not create this housing shortage. Neither did I create the fiasco that is the U.S. healthcare system. I just happen to be caught up in the vortex of ill health, age, poverty, inadequate housing, and a deep desire to rest in silence. 

A good friend's mother is dying. Another friend just found love for the first time in many years. The refrigerator is working. My check engine light went out. My sister's cat finally pooped after days of constipation. Lives are cut short from war, earthquakes, sea-level rise, gun violence, and COVID-19. The world is busy. I want to be busy, too, writing. I don't need much to do that. Maybe I can find my own version of Walden Pond. Is it out there? I won't know unless I go look. One thing I am sure of. It is not here.

The buck stops here in the Arizona desert

I've been thinking about the past. You don't have to tell me that contemplating the past is rarely a good thing. Living today for a better past is normally not a goal of mine. However, reflecting on my present circumstances has brought into sharp focus the choices that I made that have led me here to now. I've talked about this before, so I won't yank off the scab again. Nobody wants to smell an old festering wound.

I'm doing my best to navigate my fear while I manage the fear of others. The existential fear of being homeless is deeply embedded in my local zeitgeist. It seems clear that some members of my close circle of family and friends would recommend I seek the quickest path to housing, no matter what. Who cares if I have to endure shared housing! Who cares if it's in a city I don't care for, in a climate that is not healthy for me! Other people have to do things they don't want to do, what gives you the right be such a Goldilocks hothouse flower? 

No right at all, I guess, other than the small easily overlooked fact that it is my life we are talking about, not yours. I acknowledge your fear, but I cannot live what's left of my life in such a way as to make it so you don't feel fear. It's not my job to manage your fear, nor is it even possible. 

Nobody knows how much time they have on the planet. No one knows when an asteroid is going to blindside us, despite all the efforts of science. No one can predict the next pandemic or anticipate how deadly it might be. Nobody knows if the next breath they take will be their last. We live our lives as if we are immortal, as if there will always be a tomorrow. Well, I'll speak for myself. I know I have. I've made many assumptions, and made choices based on those assumptions. For example, I assumed somehow my creative life would blossom into something that would support me. 

In my secret little wizened heart of hearts, I hold out hope that it still might. The rest of me has no hope, and I'm wise enough now to know that hope is not a requirement for success of any kind. What is required is action. This I know. 

I am not a quitter. Neither am I a person who seeks to be subsidized, not by friends, not by family, not by the government. Call me a homeless loser if you must (I know you won't say it aloud to my face), but the buck stops here, with me. 

At least for the next few minutes, I choose to frame my circumstances as an invitation to meander through the field of infinite possibility. Your comments tell me you assume the worst, but we are not victims of the universe. The universe does not care about us. Bad things happen, but so do good things. Usually it is hard to tell which is which, and it doesn't matter. As long as I'm breathing and able to think and decide and take action for myself, I can set aside your fear long enough to see my life as an amazing adventure. I can see the road less traveled unfolding before me, inviting me to see what happens next. 

Fighting battles in my mind

I don't know about you (because I never hear from you), but I imagine you get weary of me whining about the ongoing disintegration of my life. May I charitably reframe it as an ongoing adventure? An epic escapade? How about a quixotic quest? An idiotic crusade? (This is what happens when I consult a thesaurus). 

My friends have varied opinions on this journey of mine, bless their hearts. A few envy me my freedom. They are saddled with stuff, people, and obligations, so I can understand the lure of this lifestyle. (Can I call disintegration a lifestyle?) Some of my friends worry for me. Living in a car in the forest is not something they would ever contemplate. I don't think they even go camping. (Actually, after that dude got eaten by a bear, camping seems like a dumb idea.) A couple of my more metaphysical friends appreciate the chaotic nature of the universe and express faith that the road less traveled is worth traveling, no matter where it leads. 

I listen to all of them.

My Phoenix friend needed a dogsitter. It just so happened I was available. For the next several days, I'm in Phoenix, serving as caregiver for a small, wiry, somewhat nutty dog with big eyes, big ears, and a surprisingly big bark. The dog and I are friends now (or at least we were until I attempted to brush her teeth), but yesterday when I got here, it was touch and go. I thought I might have to sacrifice a toe or an ankle before I would be allowed to pass. 

It's blazing hot here so the best time to go dogwalking is early in the morning or super late at night. I think the neighborhood is pretty safe after dark, but I was told there are coyotes in the area. Last night as I was trying to relax enough to fall asleep, I mentally ran through a scenario in which a coyote attacked the dog as we sauntered through the park. I pictured myself lifting the dog over my head and kicking the coyote in the gizzard. You can imagine how it would probably go down. Not like I might hope, probably. Most likely, I would not end up being a superhero. After rehearsing my moves, I realized the odds of me kicking a coyote in the gizzard (where is a gizzard, anyway?) are slim to none. However, I would not be willing to give up the dog without a fight, so if I get rabies, send me a get well card. 

This dog is somewhat eccentric. Three times today, she indicated she would like to go out into the back yard (which is concrete and gravel). It's over 100°F today. Each time, she beelined straight for the sunniest spot on the patio and flopped down on the warm pavement. Each time, I sat in the shade to stand guard (coyotes, right?), and within moments I was boneless soup in a fancy patio chair, while the dog casually lounged in the sun. I thought at first the dog had sunstroke, but no, she just really likes the heat. She reminds me of an old lady in a sauna. She sweats out the toxins for five minutes, yawns, and moseys back inside. 

At the end of this dogsitting gig, if all goes according to plan, I will take a drive out one of the highways north of Phoenix to see some of the small towns out Sedona way. My search for home continues. However, I don't think I'll be doing any camping in the national forest. I might be willing to fight off a coyote, but I'm not up for tangling with a bear. 

What is success?

The question of the day: What is success? Go ahead, take your time. I'll let you ponder the question for a minute. It's not a trick question, but answering it could be tricky. Maybe write a list. Okay, time's up. What did you come up with? More important, whose version of success did you channel? 

 

Was it the definition of a long-dead ancestor? I pose the question because someone tried to impose their version of success on me today. After the conversation concluded, I realized it wasn't even their own definition. It was really a dead person's version of success. May they rest in pieces. 

The supposed implication was that if I aspired to that definition of success, I would be happy. Or safe, which some might say is more important than being happy.  

Did you make a list? What do you need to have in order to feel successful? Safe, secure, affordable housing and a good job? Maybe a committed relationship, a pet or two, a reliable car, a big-screen TV? Good health insurance, money in the bank, and a 401K? A predictable present and a future with no surprises?

Occasionally, I've allowed someone else's definition of success to influence my decisions. I've discovered the more I pursue someone else's dreams, the less I know who I am. Sometimes I feel guilty that I'm not measuring up to another person's definition of success. I feel ashamed for wanting to succeed on my own terms. That doesn't stop me, though, not for long. 

Success for me is living a healthy creative life of service on my own terms within my means. It's a construct of moving parts. I've had to flex at times. Rarely have I been able to accomplish all parts at the same time. Some parts can flex temporarily but other parts are not negotiable. 

I don't think I was meant to walk the well-trodden path. Sometimes the riskier road calls.