Gradually, it is becoming real. We're on the road again, and adjusting. All with the usual: a configuration of problems and setbacks unique to this trip and this motor home.

Backing out of our friends' driveway around 3pm on Saturday in Colrain, Andre thunks a snowbank with the right rear of the motor home; and oops, I roll down my window later in Shelburne Falls and hear a loud noise from in front of me. That would be Andre in the Bounder; I am following him in the Rav to Aubuchon's where we plan to get propane and then depart. Doesn't take me long to notice that the exhaust pipe is dragging, percussively. Andre doesn't know yet, and innocently pulls off of Route 2, heads across the icy parking lot and swings around to the propane tank. I carefully trek to his window, gesticulating, and finally, he understands.

I know I reached my breaking point hours ago—I don't know about his.

No problem there. I get to hold up the muffler pipe while he lies jammed under the motor home on his back, wiring it up. But mercifully, a fix as simple as that is truly a fix (even now), and we head off under heavy skies to Chatham. Ten degrees outside, and inside, up front, sitting behind that monster front window—it's cold in my down coat, cold feet, cold thoughts. And my attitude—going down.

But we arrived after dark at Michael, Kate and Annabelle's (Andre's son, daughter-in-law and grandchild), got cozy with them, laughed a lot, and well-fed, headed out to bed.

The fact that we as yet had no running water did cast a pall over the idea of leaving familiar territory, but a Sunday shower in the house promised short-term relief. As did the toilet.

SUNDAY when we shopped for a hair drier to unfreeze the pipes, I picked up 2 items and declared I'd pay at one register while he paid for his things at the opposite one. But oops, the hand that went to my back pocket expecting to grab my debit/credit card pouch came up shockingly, horrendously empty. I had only the cash in my pocket between me and total dependence.

I REMEMBERED using my debit card at the bank early Saturday morning. And I am vigilant about returning the pouch to my pocket, about switching it from one pair of jeans to the next. So why this moment clutching at nothing, riding waves of anxiety? And yet, a call to the credit card companies showed no action. Lovely.

And then, memory whispered, That idea you had mid-morning the day we left, about sorting through your card pouch and leaving some behind...you sorted through receipts...you pulled out some cards...you went over to file the receipts...YES! I did this despite the voice that said this could be dangerous, you know. Of course it was, because, distracted by the receipts, I left the pouch on my laptop desk and hurried off to do this and that and more. Oh please, let this not be false memory.

So Holleran was contacted and wonderful. Promised to go up Monday to see if it was indeed on the desk and would call me as soon as he knew anything. Monday evening, in another world, shivering and walking—well, following—the frantically sniffing Sam around the motorhome at our overnight truck stop in PA, I was jarred by a ringing cell phone deep under layers of down next to my heart. Holleran. Yes! There it was! Yes, he would mail it to Jeanie's in Fayetteville!

And by that night, we had hot water, we had heat. We had a decent truck stop buffet. We had hope, and a plan to drive on Tuesday, stopping for lunch and the long-awaited inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama. Yes we can.