Rain!

It's not April, but this is western Arizona. Monday's skies were the color of pewter. The palm tree on our site rattled with wind. And the rains came down. Not just a light pencil-tapping on the roof but a machine-gun hammering.

And then it stopped. Irregularly shaped patches of blue emerged. The sun bobbed out from behind clouds.

The widest rainbow arc I'd ever seen stretched over Black Rock. The ground was soon dry.

Carolyn showed me photographs taken some years ago of immense patches of flowers across the desert. I've seen flowers on cacti but nothing like that. If we have to have rain at all, I hope we'll see a transformed desert as a consolation prize.

Work!

Whenever work was mentioned on the old Dobie Gillis sitcom, a character named Maynard G. Krebs (Bob Denver) let out a yelping "work!" I believe Herb and I echoed that sentiment as we retired.

But yesterday we both took jobs at our current campground, Black Rock RV Village in Brenda, Arizona. I work in the office of this 420+ campsite park, taking reservations, checking people in, charging items and taking payment, etc. I love it so far. I think I needed something to do! Today my cash drawer balanced--I felt I'd truly accomplished something. My work pays for our campsite, electricity and propane.

Herb is working on the maintenance crew, pumping propane, repairing cable TV outages, checking electrical problems and whatever the manager finds for him to do. He gets a paycheck.

It's part time work--truly makes a difference. We've plenty of time to enjoy the view. This was how it looked last evening.

Holy Smokes, Boss, It's the Green Hornet!

For younger readers, the Green Hornet was a masked crime fighter of radio, and later TV fame. As Herb rode off on his green quad, complete with wraparound sunglasses, the comparison came to mind. I'm not certain what sorts of crime he might be fighting out there on the Arizona desert, but I know he's having a great time.

We rode together yesterday, out the back gate of the campground and into desert land. After a time the only sign of civilization was the ATV trail. The only sound was the wind. Tall saguaro on the mountainside stood guard under fast-moving clouds. What peace!

Little Things

For those of you who think we might be motoring through life without a care, a few words--not complaints, really, just realities.

A prescription went astray in the mail (imagine that) necessitating a call to the doctor's office. He wasn't in, they'd give him a message. The prescription was called in to the closest Wal-Mart, 40 miles up the road. Two days later, on arriving at said Wal-Mart, we learned they were out of that particular nostrum, "come back Monday." On Monday, another 40 miles up the road, the line at the pharmacy was out the door and around the corner. The person at the counter, obviously frustrated with a flock of elderly and not-so-elderly snow birds, was brusque at best. I've heard of a sign once posted in Quartzsite--"We love snowbirds--they taste like chicken!"

In the ice and snow of Albuquerque, a sharp chunk fell from the roof and neatly sliced in half the hose that drains unmentionable fluids from the coach. Try mending one of those at twenty degrees!

In a campground in California we were given a space rated for a 40-foot rig. Backing in, we hit a tree at the rear--most of the coach was still in the roadway.

Since we still have issues with the title to the Jeep (thank you, Ohio), it's necessary to order temporary tags monthly from Texas at 25 bucks each. The Attorney General's office responds that the investigation is not going as fast as they'd like. That's interesting--the Newtown Police had theirs concluded in less than a week.

So are we ready to hang up our Family Motor Coach membership and call it a day? No way. Right now we're cruising along through the Arizona desert toward a favorite destination, looking forward to new adventures. Herb has an Aussie-type desert hat on and is planning to throw me on the back of the ATV and head for the hills. Bring it on!

Wherever We Are, We're Home

We were sitting at a picnic table eating lunch in Quartzsite, having plunked ourselves down with another couple. We exchanged basic information (who we are, where we're from). When they learned we live full time in our motorhome, the woman said, jerking her head toward her husband, "He could do that in a minute, but I couldn't. I need a home."

Now there's a cliche amoung full-timers that goes, "Home is where you park it." And like many cliches, it's true. Because wherever we are, we're home. From Oceanside, California to Portland, Maine, when our day is over and we've finished exploring/shopping/whatever, we say "Let's go home" and we do.

If the scenery is lovely and the neighbors are pleasant and their dogs don't bark a lot, we're comfortable with the blinds and drapes open. When it's dreary outside, we can close out the weather. When the karaoke gets too loud at the clubhouse, we can close the windows and turn on the air.

There were the usual questions about mail, banking, keeping in touch, paying bills, all easily answered now that we've been "homeless" for a year and a half.

Basically, though, home is what you make it, wherever it is, and wherever you park it!

Aha!

I can now officially call myself a freelance writer! I've been paid for writing. Not much, mind you, but there it is. Keep watching for more news on this front.

Be All That You Can Be

I borrowed that from the Army. No kidding, you're saying. The sermon this morning involved being the persons God created us to be. One of the ways that's accomplished is to share the gift of self.

When I retired, I thought I'd have this endless supply of time. I've allowed busyness to take over. I have great thoughts and ideas of how I will minister to others. Time to put them into action. After all, our actions reflect what we truly believe. If I want to check my focus, I have a look at my calendar and my checkbook!