On my birthday in early July I packed up for a little getaway to Belfair State Park. As I closed the main living room slide, it made a terrible, metal-on-metal, crunching, clunking sound. Yikes!

The Quaranteam was meeting me at the campground for a celebratory grilled steak dinner, and I had no idea if I would be able to open the slide again. Resolving that a mechanical difficulty was not going to ruin my birthday, I went straight to the park instead of a repair shop.

At the campsite I depressed the “Slide Out” button and held my breath. Even though I heard the familiar sound of a motor turning, it did not progress outward immediately. What was probably 10 or 15 seconds felt like five minutes, until it finally moved. During normal operation, the slide nestles slowly downward into a resting position to even up the flooring; there was no nestling this time. The entire wall dropped down without grace or finesse, under the power of gravity, not gears.

I was thankful for the extra room inside the coach, and there was dinner to make. Channeling my inner Scarlet O’Hara, fiddle-dee-dee, I would worry about it tomorrow.

A few days later it was time to pay the piper, and I called a mobile technician to meet me at the campsite as I prepared to depart. From his vantage point by the propane tank, he said, “This is not a mobile repair job. The gear box is hanging on by one screw. Hopefully it will close one last time, and if it does, don’t open it again. Also be real careful on curves and turns, because it’s possible the slide could open while you are driving.”

Egads! Can you imagine?

He gave the slide a good shove as I hit the button, and we got it closed. I put a death grip on the steering wheel for the 15-mile trip back to Port Orchard to unload the rig and find a repair shop that could fit me in, in July. I took curves and turns at a tortoise’s pace, much to the chagrin of following motorists.

Two’s Company

When Rhonda and Ken and I discussed staying on their property for the duration of the pandemic, Ken replied, “Well sure, you’ve got your own place.” Now here I was, one month later, moving into their upstairs guest bedroom, which I dubbed “The Writer’s Garrett,” stinking up their bathroom, and emptying my refrigerator and freezer into the deep freezer in the garage, the main refrigerator in the kitchen, and two mini fridges upstairs from when the boys lived at home. Then there were the three animals too, coming into a pet-free household. I have patient, loving, and generous friends, let me tell you.

One final white-knuckle trip to the repair shop, and I was officially grounded. It felt as if the universe was testing me. “Let’s lock her down in a place where she doesn’t know anyone.” I survived. “Let’s strand her 3,000 miles from home.” I made the journey back. “Let’s take her ability to travel freely around the country away from her.“ I adapted and joined The Quaranteam. “Okay, that didn’t break her; let’s take her motorhome away!“ I was tap-dancing as fast as I could. I practiced my thankfulness every day, for the company of dear friends, a comfortable and inviting place to stay, and beautiful Pacific Northwest weather.

I threw myself into little house projects, like decorating the screen porch, and weeding. I worked on the book. I called the repair shop for updates. And so it was, for the rest of July, and into August.

Twenty- five days and an almost $3,000 repair bill later, I got Nellie back. It was the longest repair time, and the longest I had ever been without her. I loaded her up and ran off like someone left the gate open, spending the rest of the month of August on Hood Canal. I’ll tell you about that next time.