WANDERLUSTING


This time of year a plague of symptoms assails me: itchy feet; compulsive daydreaming; restless nights. I’m obviously spring feverish, drunk on sunshine (or the lack of it), longing for a road trip. Just call me wander-woman, a kindred spirit to the legendary rambling-man. Wander-woman wanderlusting.

I wax nostalgic for the days I lived in a vehicle and could leave town when things didn’t suit me. For over seven years I lived in a 19-foot Itasca Spirit designed for weekend outings -- not for fulltime living. I slept in a bunk over the driver’s cab, and there was no room for nocturnal pacing much less room to swing a cat even if I had had one. (Not that I would actually do such a thing!) There was, however, a decent kitchen including oven, and a full-service bathroom on board.

Then my former mother-in-law offered me an older 21-foot motorhome with an actual double bed in the back, and much more suitable for a full-timer. So, I sold my Itasca Spirit and, for another five years, continued to travel around the country in more comfortable style.

I thought of myself as technically homeless, my address just a post office box. I stayed overnight in RV parks, state parks, and the friendly driveways of friends, friends of friends, and various aunts, uncles, and cousins. I also visited my two brothers from time to time. When in the Seattle area I parked in what my oldest daughter-in-law called “the mother-in-law driveway.”

I spent twelve years wandering these United States, mostly in the west, writing and teaching adult education workshops during my travels. I earned a marginal living between workshop fees and book royalties, and it was a satisfying life. Some people felt sorry for me, but I loved my gypsy lifestyle.

Then my books went out of print, my motorhome needed more and more repairs, and the price of gas kept climbing. A serious problem since the motorhome only got five or six miles per gallon at best. So I was content to move into senior housing, but every spring I hear the call of the open road. I remember with pleasure the faint odor of skunk roadkill, the postcard glimpses of the ever-changing landscape, the adventure of the challenges of everyday life.

On the other hand, these days I can hardly afford the gas for my ten-mile daily roundtrip to the swimming pool; traffic has gotten worse by the year; and I’m better at being an armchair traveler. My travels to the library to get books on true adventure feed my gypsy soul, and quiet my wanderlust.

Almost!