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Show cramped quarters of the camper for the vaulted expanse of the Midwestern sky. Within several hours, we were on the road again, two new tires and the possibility of a shower now that we were moving. Over the course of two months, we would replace each of the six tires but only after a blow out would send the Winnie off the side of the road accompanied by a tearing noise that sounded like a crashing jet. Once I was driving when we lost a tire, and my reaction was not to slow down but rather to duck. Years later I would learn that the tires were spring loaded and required special equipment to remove them, hence the all-day odysseys to find a mechanic who could help us out. What this also meant is that whenever my father and brother were working on the wheels, they risked a tire exploding with the force of a canon. In my mind now, I envision a camper resting atop grenades, but then I only groaned about the repeated break downs. By the time we hit New York, it was fairly clear that my father was not going to relax, as my mother had promised me before we left. Nothing worked right. We got lost, the refrigerator would open and spill its contents, the chosen sewer dump would already be full and spew the contents of our toilet across the concrete, my dad would hit his head on the bunk, we would miss the ferry, the turn, the sign, the sight. It was as though we were cursed. Each day produced its own burdens. Once, in Boston, we were swamped in traffic and lost. The Freedom Trail had proven a tourist trap, our guide dubbed an idiot by my father, and the Liberty Bell, we discovered, rested more than a day's drive away. Having sat all day in the July heat, the Winnie had little comfort to offer. Several times we missed the turn we needed for the tunnel and had to go back, each reversal 199 |
