September 6, 1995

 

Dear Mark and Katie:

 

We’ve not seen you much at church lately, Katie, and Mark, we’ve not had the chance to talk to you. We didn’t get the opportunity to say ‘goodbye’; we’re not sure that you knew we were leaving. And because you’re special to us, we don’t want to be totally out of touch.

 

Right now, we’re in our trailer at Ozark Campground in Arkansas. We’re campground hosts again. Labor-day weekend was probably our largest responsibility–we had 106 people here. A lot of them children. They played volleyball, horseshoes, and hide and seek. They swam, rode bicycles, and colored pictures in the pavilion. Their parents visited into the night and maintained their sanity.  Gerry and I were there to answer questions, foresee trouble, keep the rangers informed, and say unpopular things like “No you can’t ride your bikes on the hiking trails,” and “You need to be quieter; it’s after ten o’clock.” We’ll be here through most of October. But after that, we’re homeless and freewheeling.

 

We’ve leased our house, stored our furniture, and will live in our trailer for a year.  Our next stop is Big Bend, Texas which is described as remote and mysterious; a place you can’t stumble onto accidentally. After that, we’ll head up through New Mexico, Arizona, Utah–angling toward Oregon and Washington. We want to be in position to reach Alaska by the last of May and spend the summer there. If we’re willing to risk a winter in Alaska, we’ll be gone more than a year. We’ve no firm schedules. Sometimes people try to tie us down to dates and places–especially Christmas. We just say wherever, whenever, whatever. That lack of specificity is hard for some folks to understand or accept.

 

We’ve been here a week. As soon as we moved into the trailer it felt like home. We’ve given away or thrown out most of the junk in our lives and we never want to be that cluttered by possessions again. It was lots of work getting ready but it was a freeing experience as well. We gave away four-hundred books and still have boxes of them stored. We called The Kitchen three times to pick up items. Some things we uncovered; we didn’t even recognize. And why we’d kept others was a puzzlement. We found ancient fruit jars, comic books, records, and clown make up. There were tutus, a shoe last, and pictures of people nobody had told us about.

 

It was tough deciding what to bring with us. Space counted, and so did weight. We needed our mountain bikes and camping gear. Our computers and printer were a must. We selected a few books and needed clothes for all seasons. What we don’t have, we don’t miss.

 

Right now, the sky is so blue it hurts, the grass is green, the trees grow tall and make long shadows, the bluffs take your breath away, and the river is loveable. We’re surrounded by forest and mountains. I can see them from where I’m sitting, and Camino Fourth Day music tape is playing “Have you Seen Jesus My Lord.” Well, we haven’t but we’re sure He’s here somewhere.

 

Most of the weekend campers have gone. And, at last, the cows have gone too. We’ve had four, black, cow-pile-making ladies here off and on since we arrived; they grazed and made messes; campers and cow piles aren’t happy combinations.

 

I got to watch a farmer call his cows home–90’s style. He drove along the road in front of our trailer in a battered, red pickup truck with a little food trickling out the back. Driving slowly, with his door opened, he leaned out, looked over his shoulder, and called, “Hoooey, girls. Hoooooooey!” The biggest and oldest cow followed but the other three dilly-dallied, turned their backs, circled, looked bewildered. The farmer stopped his truck, reved the motor started moving again, yelling louder “Hooooey, hoooey. Hoooooooey girls. The girls didn’t seem to give a hoooey about hoooey. They did, finally, start to amble in his direction but it was hard for them to stay focused. Two of the cows were small, and young, but not calves. Suddenly one of these heard the call and felt it. She kicked up her heels and started running as if the farmer were an evangelist and she suddenly understood what he meant by grace. Then, the other two followed–not feeling the call, but submitting to the herd instinct. Even then, the three lost the thread again and veered to the side, tempted into a good dust wallow. The farmer’s “Hoooooey girls” seemed a little shrill by now but it eventually took hold and they all went off up the road. I could hear the chug of the truck and a final “Hooey, Hooey girls” as they went around a curve. Through it all, the first cow never strayed once she started. Like the Prodigal Son’s brother, she may have felt sullen if they threw a welcome home party and she got the same amount of hay as the other three.

 

That experience has given us a whole new understanding of what is meant by “Waiting until the cows come home.”

 

We were glad to see the Camino announcement in the Parish Press. We’ve got a De Colores sticker on the back of our trailer, hoping to find kindred spirits in our travels.

 

Take care. In Christian Love.

 

 

Gerry and Rosalie