This 16-year-old fifth-wheel camper is tired. It’s downright ugly, borderline-decrepit due to lack of attention and proper upkeep. It is not, by any definition, a perfect place in which to live.
Still, in its role as my temporary quarters, it just plain works. Everything, with the exception of the LP furnace, functions properly, or (like the dump valves on the waste-water tanks) can be made to function properly.
For the last five days, the best thing about this camper is that it’s dry. Roof, walls, windows and door keep the relentless rain outside where it belongs. In the living area, one space heater on its lowest setting is all that’s required for comfort on this raw, damp Sunday.
I’m closer than ever to living full-time in the cabin. Honestly, that can’t happen soon enough. But a big part of being present, living fully each moment, is celebrating moments that aren’t quite perfect.
Want me to say that again?
The key to happiness, even to being mentally healthy and emotionally functional, is finding joy at times that don’t measure up to our hopes, dreams, and ideals. Rejecting that plain truth is self-sabotage and, in no small way, self-loathing.
Our lives overflow with good. Short of perfection is incalculable joy.
And so, as the pups and I weathered this early spring deluge in an arguably crappy RV, I was compelled to recognize — and yes, even to celebrate — how great it is to be right here, right now.
I took my sweet time making a pot of coffee disappear yesterday morning. The rain was coming down pretty hard, accompanied by thunder at times and the odd flash of lightning. I relaxed, hypnotized by the downpour thrumming on the roof.
Inherently curious, and with a couple of errands to run, I left the dogs behind and drove to town. I took the long way, less likely to be affected by rising waters.
Crooked Creek was way up, naturally. It was the highest I’ve seen it since last fall’s floods. As I came into Yellville from the east, Shawnee Town Branch was beginning to lap at US 62 near the edge of town. I suspected it wouldn’t be long before it covered the road.
I took the state highway and the county road back home. That wasn’t the most prudent decision, I’ll grant that, but I wanted to see how that route holds up in conditions like this.
Predictably, the bottoms were the worst. Knee-high-to-an-Angus standing water in hayfields and pastures. A foot of water completely across the road in two spots.
To my surprise, the lone low-water crossing was dry — that is, water wasn’t running over it.
My brief foray made it clear that the best thing to do would be to stay put the rest of the day.
I did.
The post office box, my first Saturday errand, was full. Strangely, it contained both a USPS change-of-address confirmation for the former resident and a handful of mailpieces that should’ve been forwarded to the former resident’s new address.
I dealt with that, then turned to a small parcel addressed to me — my old Benchmade 551-ORG Griptilian, fresh from factory service.
A few years ago, I made the mistake of handing this knife to a guy in Pocahontas for a quick touch-up. He completely FUBARed the blade. It took me a long time to send it to Benchmade for a replacement, which (for obvious reasons) wouldn’t be covered under the company’s lifetime warranty.
The techs in Oregon City did, in fact, swap the damaged blade for a new one. Unfortunately, at least in my opinion, the original 154 CM was replaced with S30V. I expected that, since Benchmade no longer offers the older steel in current production.
It feels like my Grip also was completely refurbished, with new pivot and bearings. It sports a shiny new pocket clip. And it was returned to me in a new microfiber pouch.
Yes, I’ll miss that 154 CM stainless. But essentially, I have a brand-new knife for a small fraction of what it’d cost to buy one at today’s street price.
The Benchmade 551 Griptilian is, hands-down, my all-time favorite folder. It’s good to have this one back in the stable.
Though a little more rain may fall on The Mountain today, this weather event has run its course. I checked my rain gauge early this morning — 2.25 inches.
That adds up to over eight inches since midday Wednesday, exactly what had been predicted. Again, the fact that it was spread out over four days made it a lot easier for the terrain to absorb what came down.
Yellville and the surrounding area set no records but got more than its creeks, streams, and runoff schemes could handle. A number of roads reportedly were washed out.
The US 62 corridor east of Mountain Home, small towns like Imboden and Hardy, were hit much harder. Likewise Mammoth Spring, 60 miles ENE of here, where the rain-swollen Spring River took out a railroad bridge — with a freight train on it.
Ozarkansans were told to expect “catastrophic” flooding. Now it’s being described as “generational.” Either label fits. In these places and hundreds of others, the devastation is beyond comprehension.
While I’m safe and well here on the high ground, I keep my good fortune in perspective.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable