When the pandemic began, my traveling companions and I could only watch as our meticulously curated camping reservations, made months, and some up to a year, in advance, disintegrated. Our conversations sounded reminiscent of the Civil War: “We just received word that South Carolina fell. North Carolina’s Outer Banks have closed their borders. Virginia can’t be far behind.”

Our maximum 14-day stay at a Georgia state campground soon to expire, they rose early and drove to several private campgrounds to find a place to ride out the storm. That day I heard from Gail and Ward in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Gail and Ward are longtime blog readers. We had planned to meet for the first time on Hilton Head Island, where they own property at an RV resort; I would stop for a couple of days en route from Savannah to Charleston. Now, as I sat in Savannah with absolutely no idea where to go or who could take me, Gail and Ward threw me a lifeline.

The offer was that I could park on their RV property on Hilton Head Island for up to six weeks. If in that time they wanted to bring their coach from their home in Charlotte, I would move to another site in the resort.

I’ve told you about the day of my arrival at the resort on March 23, knowing for the first time in weeks that I had found a safe haven. Gail and Ward made sure I felt welcome.

In the garden shed they left me a collection of rum samplers from a recent trip to The Keys.

Gail texted most every day, and our first face-to-face meeting occurred on Zoom. We shared our love of John Prine before we even knew he was sick; Gail and Ward remotely serenaded me with his duet “In Spite of Ourselves” as Gail accompanied on Ukelele.

They asked friends and neighbors at the resort to watch out for me, which is how I met Leslie, who has a site across the way with her husband. From a distance she asked if there was anything I needed. I replied that I was getting most of my supplies via Instacart, but I had no luck with toilet paper.

The local grocery store set aside early morning hours for the sick and elderly. I awoke especially early the next morning at 7:30 a.m., stumbling my way to the bathroom, where from the window I saw this already waiting on the table for me:

Over the next few weeks Leslie was my beyond-the-gates procurer for items I could not get delivered, like wine and flowers.

I’ve also told you about Monty, a workamper valet at the resort, whom I approached to ask for help. Back then no one really knew if the virus could be contracted from touching surfaces, and I was deathly afraid of going to the communal mail area. It was not resort policy to deliver mail and parcels directly to sites, but Monty and his wife Karen personally deposited box after box via golf cart to my site, which continued until they went home to Maine.

Gail and Ward did return to the resort, and what was originally planned as a two-day visit became two weeks. Gail took over for Leslie as my connection to the outside world, dropping off groceries and items I could not get online. Most importantly, we communed each day, albeit from a distance, sometimes briefly, sometimes in masks, but after four weeks of strict isolation, I cannot tell you what that time with Gail and Ward meant to me.

Another huge gift was the opportunity for the dogs to be off-leash for the first time in seven weeks. On May 1 some Hilton Head beaches reopened for residents only. I tagged along with Ward and Gail for the short drive, windows down and masks on. I cried when I saw Rocket and Pinkie on the sand, running free with Gail and Ward’s dogs, full of unadulterated joy and goofy abandon.

As I prepared to finally depart Hilton Head and return to the state of Washington, I lamented at the conclusion of a blog that I had no disposable gloves for fueling at truck stops. Enter Larry, another blog reader I’ve never met, who offered to mail gloves to me. When I replied with an address and an offer to reimburse him he said:

“Money?  What are you crazy? I’ve been reading you for some time now.  I was a full timer since 2008, just recently purchasing a home near Myrtle Beach and taking a hiatus from the bus.  I’ll ship them out tomorrow. Be well and safe and always……Pay It Forward. Larry”

Before these events, all of these people were complete strangers to me.

There are angels among us. We summon them by asking for help. We emulate them by helping others.

We need each other now, more than ever.

* “Everything that is tearing us down today will become a memory, and this memory will be shared as an anecdote or a story or a poem or a play or a warning. It will be shared with another human being, who will then understand that he is not alone in his sadness. This is why we show up for others and tell our tales and listen to others. The great congregation meets daily, and you are someone’s angel today.”

– Tennessee Williams/Interview with James Grissom

Epilogue

It’s been 14 days since I walked out of that heavy truck repair shop in Missoula, Montana, so self-quarantine in Washington is officially over. Tomorrow I’ll move the rig from the Eagles hall up to my friends’ house, where I’ll stay for the duration of the virus.

Yesterday morning I holed up at home, busy with projects. At midday I took the dogs out for a pee, when I came upon a bag on the exterior steps. Here’s what was inside.

I have no idea who bestowed this thoughtfulness and generosity. I phoned all the usual suspects I know here in the county, and even asked the couple staying in the fifth wheel next to me. Nope! Someone saw me parked here, pulled up the website, and read I was worried about staying safe at the gas station.

Angels have followed me home.