A road trip list poem:
Motor Homes in a Florida RV Park

Residency
Adventurer
Cedar Creek
Rockwood
Everest
Georgetown
Airstream
Mobile Suites
Designer
Coachmen
Bon Voyage
Dutchmen
Open Range
Overland
Discovery
Grand Junction
Challenger
Diplomat
Komfort
Monaco
Journey
Eagle
Revolution
Kountry Aire
Sandpiper
Arctic Fox
Montana
Bounder

We all know there's fantasy attached to anything on wheels. And what's in a name—the name attached to the home on wheels? Everything! High hopes, dreams, a dash of snobbery, some humor. (Nothing is but saying makes it so?)

We are traveling in a Bounder. The logo is a cartoon of a kangaroo in motion—boing—boing—boing—sporting a goofy smile. As far as I'm concerned this image is appropriate for us, and any moving parts above or near our wheels. If you've followed our travels in the past, you'll remember that our journeys are fraught with malfunctions. Boing. Boing. Boing. Leave with no hot water. Find out the cause. Replace the defective part. Voila. Hot water.

So, we drive along, contemplating the ecstasies of hot water. Boing. Boing. Boing. But there is now the niggling problem of the water pump. Not working. When we are in an RV park, we can hook up to their water and it flows through our system. On the road, or roughing it for the night, we need the pump for drinking, washing. Flushing! Upsetting, especially for Andre who is prepared for almost everything but must eradicate unforseen problems. This time, it means looking up the part in a catalogue he has on hand, and on line (if he's lucky), phoning ahead to see if the part is available in Little Rock, removing the offending mechanism to be damn sure the part is the right one, finding the supplier. Intermittent rest for this camper. Boing. Boing. Boing.

I'll even admit that there is some reward for roughing it. Something closer to "camping". Which soothes the guilt I carry for traveling in luxury (no granite countertops or chandeliers, though) when a tent and outhouse should be enough.

When we began this trip we were drinking bottled water from home because of a residue of sweet (potable) antifreeze in our water; we managed quite well.

Without the hot water, I washed dishes like they do in some countries where there is only cold water: I used lots of dish soap and rinsed with cold! There was the microwave or stove for real hot water. But toothbrushing was painful, even for Amazons of adjustment.

Then there was last night.

We left finally-warm Florida. Andre found a route that cut 100 miles off the trip to Fayetteville. We had plenty of hot water. Food. Fond memories. No house water pump.

We crossed from Alabama into Mississippi. Made it through an anxious GPS engendered muddle in Mobile. We got gas and headed for the Dry Creek Water Park & Campground. Again, we followed the GPS in conjunction with a map, and things looked good as we wound further and further into the country. Until "she" announced that we'd reached our destination and all we saw were homes, fields, cows and trees.

I called the campground, was told—well—no time here for anger about misleading instructions. We retraced our path, then followed his directions and reassuring signage, many more miles deep into the lovely Mississippi countryside. We arrived just before dark, headed for some deeply desired respite.

But before we backed into our small lonely site at wood's edge, Andre had to detach the car. Boing. Boing. Boing.

It wouldn't start. No matter what. Jumping. Again and again. Towing and trying to pop the clutch with me frazzled at the wheel.

Somehow, he unhooked it, pushed it off the road, and backed the motor home into our site not far from the car. We had power, cold and hot water, a cozy meal, beautiful silence, a frightening apocalyptic dvd with doomed animals running out from the burning woods similar to those surrounding us—and no cell service. And yes, in the movie the angelic "aliens" did take the children from the flame-wrapped earth to safety. The only survivors.

Yet we slept peacefully. I awoke and began to play with positive thinking. Andre planned to start the car in the morning when the sun rose. Surely, it was a problem with the battery terminals. A defunct charger. I began grateful thanks to whomever for the miracle that would occur. I imagined the car starting. I returned to imagining the car starting when my fantasies took a dark turn. I gave thanks again. My body tried its usual anxious display, and I chided it.

I cleaned up after breakfast. Prepared to roll. Walked the dogs. I couldn't help but notice that despite all his efforts, the car was not starting. My rich fantasies again strayed to the dark side. As Andre had mentioned last night, our other option was to back the motor home into position near the car, then push the car from the grass to the road, and into place, where Andre would attach the towbar to the motor home.

Usually, this involves driving the car in small increments, watching for the pull-forward/back-up hand signals from Andre as he holds the tow bar in the other hand above the hitch ball, waiting for the perfect placement.

Today, I gave sincere and joyful thanks for the miracle of the hook-up, which went smoothly due to Andre's brute strength, imagination, determination—and all the invisible help he received.

Tonight, we're staying next to the highway that smacked us like the clickety clack of train tracks all the way from Mt. Olive to Coldwater, M-ISS-ISS-I-PPI. Andre has us hooked up. He's made some calls. We have fully functioning wi-fi. CNN and Law and Order. We'll head for Little Rock and the replacement pump tomorrow. It's time for me to stop this rambling, and make dinner. For now, we're so in the moment. Happy Campers.

Boing. Boing. Boing.