Date: Mon, 29 Jun 1998 21:29:10 -0700 From: Charlie Ford To: vintagebus@type2.com Subject: The Rest of the Story After leaving Gus in Saint Louis I decided I would take advantage of my time totally alone and dwell on matters of direction. Once in a while a person just needs to slow down and think about where they want to be and along with that ascertain how much they want to gain by being there. Even with my travels I am still wandering about my future and how much I want to gain from it before I pass into the great divide of judgement. Mostly I am thinking about "HOW" I want to gain it. Life in a suit is not as appealing as it used to be, but then neither is the low paying grunt positions of labor and intensity. The chosen route northward was about the most rural route I could develop. For some reason I am feeling a bit frustrated with constant relocation, but on the other hand I am finding it quite hard to sit still. The habit of "not sitting still" literally has become strong. I am trying to figure out a way I can make money on the road and at the same time feel like a traditional 41-year-old male. Needless to say there aren't many my age out here strolling around in a VW bus. In some circles it is acceptable but in others it is not. I am struggling with how I can please both factions. I drove away from Pat Hoffman's place thinking about Gus, and how of late he has even been a burden to my thoughts. There is just not a whole lot of room for a big guy and a dog in a bus. One thing I have noticed about traveling with a dog is that the animal becomes totally glued to you. If I am away from Gus for very long at all he starts to bark a continuous bark that only a hound dog breed can bay. As soon as I come back into view he quiets. Hopefully this summer camp will offer him a vacation from me and me one from him. I knew when I got him that this new addition to the travels was going to change things. I immediately took on a new responsibility when he loaded into the bus. I love him and already miss him, but I need some solitude to break the proverbial "cord". I am feeling like I have to settle in somewhere. The travels may continue, but for the next couple months I will be raising money and developing a plan for the rest of my life. Sounds deep doesn't it. : ) Well the Mississippi River basin came and went, along with the breadbasket farmlands of Illinois. On the day I left I drove all the way up to Ryan Nelson's home just below Madison Wisconsin but still in Illinois. This area is rural and hot in the summer. Mosquitoes buzz everywhere and bite quickly creating great irritation to one's psyche, not to mention the body, mind, and soul. I swear, in southern Georgia we have mosquitoes but I will have to concede that these are the worse I have seen. In all honesty though, can you really put a degree of measure to an insect as irritating as a mosquito. Is the little blood beggar any more or less irritable in one region as than in another. I kinda figure if the damn thing bites you it's irritating, and it really does not matter how much it might weigh, or whether it lands at the local airstrip or not. Kill the damn thing! See that blood on your arm, it's yours! I slept well that night but still I missed Gus. This was the first night since I got him that he wasn't snoring at the foot of my bed. A good hard Midwest rain blew in and changed my thoughts to those weird sounds only a bus and the rain can make. It's like sleeping in a house with a tin roof, or as close as you can get and still be mobile. I drifted to sleep. The next morning I awoke and headed out to Madison to see Bob Whitby. Bob is my editor. He is the one that made the offer to edit the writings from last year. He still says that he thinks we can get published. When the publisher makes the acceptance I will believe it. I have all sorts of faith in Bob though, he has been an editor at "The Isthmus", a local Madison weekly paper for a few years, and has been practicing the art of writing for even longer. I think that is pretty cool. I only aspire to say I am a writer, he does it for a living. I stayed at Bob's one night. He has also just ordered a tent from Steve Lashley, the Casa Royale I believe. I set mine up in his yard to assure him that he was getting a good tent. The Tramp, the one I have has stood some pretty strong elements of late. These flat lands in Wisconsin can move wind along at a good clip, and the thunderstorms are nothing to sneeze at either. The sneezing comes in from the pollen generated by every imaginable farm crop you can think of. Bob and I sat around inside the spare room of the Mothership, drank a few beers and talked about what each other wanted out of life and career. Being an editor doesn't appear to be as glamorous as one would think it is. Of course there is a pretty fair salary, but if you're a writer at heart then that's what you want to spend your time doing. Bob explains to me that he feels in need of a change of pace. I told him to go for it. Bob will work it out, he's a thinking type of fellow. On my side of the coin, I can't decide what I want to do. Should I seek another professional job?; Should I return to school and prepare for another beginning maybe as a VW Mechanic or a truck driver?; Should I pursue my dreams and meander and try to write my way back around the country and eventually learn the craft well enough to make money at it? I asked Henry Dekuyper, the editor of VW Trends if the magazine would be interested in a travel reporter, but he said they were not. The travel has become habit, I enjoy it, but right now I can't, or do not know how to make a living at it. Any suggestions would be helpful. The next day I left Bob's and headed on over to Kansasville, Wisconsin to meet up with the boys and girls of the DBG. I looked forward to seeing them. It only took an hour or so to arrive at The Wildlife Refuge, a bar that sort of caters to busses and harleys. Yes Dave and James there is one in existence, maybe it would go over down south after all. The "Wildlife" is an oasis. The building is an old three-story house tucked away off the road in some old oak trees. On any given evening you can pull up to the bar and see five or six Harley Davidson bikes and several Busses all living in unison while their owners do the same inside the establishment. Perceived hellion meets perceived hippy and both live in peace amongst each other. "Can't we ALL just get along?" : ) I pulled into the parking lot at about 11:00 AM. No one was here but they would be soon, the bar opens at 2:00 PM. I had time to finish a Stienbeck book I had bought at a yard sale and catch me a little nap before going in and having my first Guinness. You can get a draft pint at this little place for $2.50, and that ain't bad, especially when you pay $4.00 other places. I was laying there reading and I heard someone pull up in the lot. I looked up and it was Marie one of the owners of the bar. She came up and said, "I know who you are!" I said "Who?". She replied "You're Charlie Ford. The guy that travels around in his bus." I told her she was correct. I know her sister Julie and have heard of her. Julie is at all of the campouts with the DBG. She is also of late the significant other of Chris Walsh, a Chicago bus owner, and one helluva meticulous guy I might add. I ended up hanging around the bar that afternoon while waiting for the Soiney's to show up and retrieve me. The bar life ain't no good life, but a pint of Guinness and some good conversation never hurt anyone. It's all about balance I guess, and if you have too much of either, you're out of it. Later I retired to the comfort of the bus till the DBG got there, it was a matter of balance. I just can't drink like I used to, I am proud to say, but then I don't really want to either. The week after I arrived I got the job at the Go-cart plant. Johnson Cart is one of the larger go-cart companies out there. They produce carts used at recreation areas and amusement parks. You know those places that rent carts to kids while the parents stand off to the side because they want to act like they think parents should act. Secretly we all know that they want to squeeze in that little air-cooled bastard and scream it around the track at blazing blood curdling speeds of up to 30 miles per hour. Personally I want to get my hands on one of those racing carts that push the edge of sanity. You know the type that sits 1 inch off the ground and has a 2.0 litre fuel injected engine in the rear. Varrooooomm! "Tell Mama I love her!" he was heard saying as he left the starting line. : ) Anyway, I worked one week at that job and didn't even get to drive a cart. I drilled little rubber bumpers each day, and when I wasn't drilling them I was cutting them. I was the lowest grunt employee they had on board and they wanted to prove it to me. The guys I worked with were nice enough but there was one jerk I could have slapped around a little. One of those folks that "If you bought them for what they were worth, and sold them for what they thought they were worth, you would never have to work again." Piece of crap personality with an attitude to boot. Made me want to thump him on his nose a couple times the first day. The second week I got pretty ill. I got a sinus infection that kicked my butt to the bed. I quit the job simply because it was a 25 mile drive each morning and I had a chance at a golf course just down the road from the house. I also needed to recuperate. It was the same amount of money and I was almost assured I would get the job. I hoped so anyway. Well I got the job just as expected and started two weeks ago as of this writing. I am the new small engine mechanic for the golf course lawn maintenance division. I must say it is a cushy position with all the benefits of any lower paid grunt, essentially none. It is not glamorous, but it is fun. Fun that is except for the fact that I work with a bunch of crazy outlandishly energetic 20 something's. I arrive each morning at 6: 00 AM and the show begins. The 20 something's drip in like a leaky roof, each one bringing their own brand of irritation, yet anticipation. Some of the stories are great to hear about. One of the main "Riddlin children" as I have dubbed them is Eric. He is 25 years old and just as crazy as any bedbug you ever met. He has a nose ring, a tongue ring, an eyebrow ring, and is reputed to have a penis ring. I haven't had the urge to get to know him that well, and if I do someone please come and shoot my ass. Eric is actually a bright guy when he is not bouncing off the walls suffering the affects of some drug he has ingested, digested, and/or congested into his fragile yet colorful system. His favorite hobbies include yelling at the top of his voice, spitting into the air and catching the wad in his mouth, thereby repeating the process, and kicking things. When he is calm, he is conversive, and articulate, but only as much as his limited education will allow him to be. His latest excitement is the fact that he is going to jail. The young man was just awarded 45 days for his third count'em "THREE" DWI's. In his words he is looking forward to it. He wears the sentence on his arm for all to see and hear about with boastful posturing and proud talk. Man if I were to go to jail my Granddaddy would come back from the grave and kick my ass, and deservedly so. "If there is no honor in it, then refrain from it". That is the rule. It appears as though the entire crew is comprised of either the wild young criminal type, the college student looking for a major, or the ever-present "man looking for meaning and purpose. When you think about it one is just as lost as the other and each one is trying to figure out what we want to be when we grow up. I guess I add a needed ingredient to the already diverse group. At the least I am the oldest one in the shop. The golf course is a nice place to work. I get golf privileges and my own personal cart for cruising around checking on the machinery. I get perks like 30 minutes for lunch, no fringe benefits, and very low pay. These make up for a very exciting life, but then I am living in my bus in a buddy's driveway so my overhead is relatively low. Hopefully I can raise enough money in the ensuing weeks to pay some old debts that are growing older by the day, and secure a stake to get started where and whenever I finally settle down, I wonder when that day will come to be honest. To all of you that donated money to the raffle of the bus I want to say a hearty thank you. I do realize that some of you just wanted the bus and didn't care whom the money went to, but others of you just gave to be good people. Each motive is noble and deserves an amount of appreciation. There is honor in each one. Thanks from the bottom of my heart. When I do settle into a career, I will take the amount awarded me in the raffle and set up an account for emergency list use only. I have to think about and would welcome suggestions as to how I could do this. Basically I am thinking that we could have an account controlled by a committee. People could donate to the account and the monies, the first amount coming from me, would be dispersed for emergency situations for people traveling in their busses and have broken down. The money would need to be paid back, but it would at least be available for emergency use. Anyway, I am in Wisconsin and doing fair. I have some work, although not a career. I went and picked up Gus this weekend and he is doing well. He is asleep at the time of this writing, and we are once again enjoying each other's company. He is a good dog and I have missed him way too long. Thanks Tim and Joy for watching him for the month. The Mothership is running well and doesn't seem to be losing any power at all. The travel seems to suit her to a tee, or should I say to a V. I will try and keep you guys posted a little more on happenngs as they occur. I kind of like writing to y'all, it's as if the list is one gigantic friend. Thanks for being there. Thanks for tolerating the ramblings. Charlie Ford Charlie Ford cford@sysnet.net (912) 375-3651 (Leave Message) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ To leave the list, send an UNSUBSCRIBE message to VINTAGEBUS-REQUEST@TYPE2.COM ------------------------------------------------------------------------------