Aqua Magic

Waxing Crescent Moon

It's hard to believe I have been living in my tiny trailer for five years. I must say that life at The Farm ( Mission Farm Campground for those of you not in the know) suits me well. If anything, I wish I had even fewer possessions and distractions. The simpler life is the better, if you ask me - less stuff means fewer things that can go wrong.

Despite my contentment, however, I have continued to harbor in the back of my mind a nagging feeling that I might not exactly belong. Before I moved in here, I didn't know the first thing about RVs or RVing. The nice, patient people at the park had to teach me everything, from hitching my rig up to Spugly, to connecting water and sewer lines, to leveling my rig in my assigned space, to building a redneck deck out of purloined ag pallets, to the proper feeding and caring of propane tanks. I was, and I am, a neophyte, a rookie, a hyper-educated virgin misfit compared to the seasoned park residents who have slowly brought me along.

A pull-behind Fleetwood Prowler was not really meant for full-time living. Everybody knows that. But last week, to my extreme befuddlement, the plastic commode in my tiny Greyhound-style bathroom failed all of a sudden - rather spectacularly. A rusted metal doohickey popped out of the gray plastic flush-handle thingy (not "popped out" really so much as shot out like a whirling Ninja Kunai Shuriken blade) and rattled off the particle board cabinet under the sink before spinning to a halt on the fake linoleum floor. This shocking display was accompanied by rushing water and, ahem, other leakage. I never pulled my pants up so fast in my life.

I have since learned that this calamity happens every so often to inveterate RVers, but nonetheless I was astonished. Where the heck was I going to poop?

The fortunate thing about living in a one hundred ninety square feet space is that everything is pretty close by. I hopped out the door, turned two corners, and cranked off the water faster than Carl Lewis. Then I grabbed my chest, leaned against my trailer, and stumbled back to the beach chair on my redneck deck slower than Fred Sanford.

"This is The Big One! Ya hear that, Elizabeth? I'm comin' to join ya, honey!"

Semi-recovered, I logged on to YouTube for some very funny redneck lessons about how to swap out terlets. Some of the scenes showed my exact 1993 model, the Thetford Aqua Magic IV, manufactured with care in good ole Ann Arbor, Michigan. The videos were SO helpful. The RV pros were SO clever. I love those guys, despite their utter disregard for grammar, dentistry, "bad" cholesterol levels, and butt-crack modesty.

To make a long (and icky) story short, I was able to remove the dead, gross, stinky, nasty potty and install a shiny new Thetford Aqua Magic V with only minor cussing fits and one weird trip to Camping World. This thing is so pretty I almost don't want to pee on it.

My friends, I am so proud of myself. I think I have finally arrived.

Peace and Love from The Farm,
Jim