In Minnesota, we had to leave the area around the highway to find a place for the night—about 28 miles round trip. Andre could tell you exactly how much extra that cost in gas, although the site cost only $18 with electricity. But Glenwood's lovingly cared for community park nurtured us with its green grass, tall trees, and curving waterway planted with wildflowers. Local Girl Scouts and their families had an event that evening in the building and playgrounds across from us. We watched Remember the Titans on tv—so good that even our pointillist poor reception didn't stop us from staying through to the end, with the added frustration of being unable to read the final current bios of each character.

In the morning, we woke happily, and went through our abbreviated (no water, no sewage hookup) departure routine. Andre disconnected the electricity, checked the tires; inside, plugged the extension cord back into the inverter, adjusted the rear window video camera, carried Elvis' sleeper back to the bed side, pulled open the front curtains, reattached his visor with a plastic strip. I put away all the dishes ad pans, the coffeemaker, locked up the refrigerator, moved the dog food and water from the front aisle back under the table, took the plastic shopping bag of trash from the basket and tied it up, put my water and Andre's coffee up front in the holders on the engine cover.

My next job would be to start the car and follow the motorhome to a level strip on the side of the exit road, where we would then hook it to the motorhome, and be on our way in the bright new day.


But no. For the third time, the Bounder did not start. And Andre's trick of opening the choke didn't work. We had no cell phone service. So again, it was time to stay cool. Andre tried to rest. I decided I'd leave him some room and virtuously take a walk. I brought my camera and step by step, responded to the magic of the morning sun, the long shadows of the trees on the fresh grass. My anxiety about being trapped faded, as I heard birdsong, and walked lightly uphill and through the lanes of quiet white sunlit campers, trailers and motorhomes. Once or twice, I thought I might have heard the throaty call of the Bounder. But I focused on the sun, the grass.

On my way through the deserted play area I came upon a tiny pair of socks partially buried in the sand. I marveled at the feelings they evoked, the questions they generated. I thought that leaving them behind was surely a small price to pay for the joy of removing them and walking barefoot from the sand to the cool grass .

Exhilarated by my walk, I returned to the motorhome. I saw motion in the driver's seat, then the door opened and Andre jumped out and walked with paper towels and Windex toward the front windows. When I got closer, he told me he'd gotten it started; a new trick was required, the proverbial rap. I had indeed, heard the Bounder's call. My joy increased, my gratitude rose.