Within the RVing world are many cultures, many niches, many ways to deploy a home on wheels. That variety is reflected in the campgrounds we encounter — posh to spartan, idyllic to utilitarian, large and small. Some parks are meant to be waypoints, intended for little more than an overnighter. Others roll out a buffet of amenities, begging for an extended stay.
Our current surrounds lean more toward the practical. It’s a fairly big park, around a hundred sites, situated just off the highway in an industrial area outside a large Texas city. It has all the right stuff — tidy and clean, good hookups and adequate Wi-Fi, level sites with concrete pads, laundry, washhouse, dog park, even a small pool. Among our neighbors are a few seasonal types and a number of long-term laborers who commute daily from this campground to their job sites. The rest, like us, appear to be here only for a night or two.
Every park has its quirks. Rolling in yesterday afternoon I noticed right away that this place has a thing about signs. They’re everywhere, each blaring a message about something I must do or must never, ever do.
Some of the placards are off-the-shelf designs, others obviously custom-made, still others hand-scrawled. Green arrows and red hands. There’s neither rhyme nor reason, just rules.
I find it amusing. Not that I intend to disobey our hosts’ commands or anything, I just get a chuckle out of it.
Sure, there have to be rules, especially in a campground with its transient micro-population. Most parks supply a printed list of their rules at check-in, reinforced by a few signs in strategic places. Here it’s the other way ’round.
Beyond the entertainment value, and recognizing that those random displays do indeed serve a purpose, I still can see that we’ve chosen a solid place to land for a couple of nights. We have no postcard view but the sunsets are beautiful, trees shade us on both sides and the breeze (while we’re here, anyway) is cool.
Today is a pleasant and restful day for Deb and me. We’re occupying ourselves with light chores, making some plans and reveling in the milder temps. (Believe it or not, a windy 90 degrees is mild compared to what we’ve been through.)
It’s summer on The High Plains.
This morning I again experienced the grace of the RV community firsthand, once on the receiving end and once on the giving end. Our curb-side neighbor, who was in the process of tearing down to leave, noticed me outside fussing with Ernie’s powered awning — somehow the canopy’s strap got tangled in the mechanism. Unprompted, he dropped what he was doing and came over to help me free it.
On our road side was a family of four traveling in a rented Class A gasser, a little 27-foot rig. It’s been a rolling nightmare ever since they picked it up, and the fact that they’re wholly unprepared hasn’t helped matters. Today the gate on their pedal-flush toilet stuck open, a problem guaranteed to ruin any RVer’s day.
No, I didn’t roll up my sleeves and fix it for them. But I did give them a bunch of nitrile gloves so they could effect temporary repairs until they get it to a shop.
It’s what we do — we pay forward. Deb and I truly love this life and the nomads who inhabit it.
Tomorrow we’ll weigh anchor and sail farther north, an easy run to another two-night stay. Right now I’m gonna get back to my Tuesday, and I’ll see you down the road.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.