Coffee Chronicles…and It Is a Big Deal to Me
- Marc & Bridget Saunders
- 2 days ago
- 4 min read
So the HB and I are on the road again. Yep, we left right on schedule, just like Amtrak. And suddenly it became an expensive trip. As if RVing isn't already an expensive pastime. Ugh.
We were climbing the grade in the Cajon Pass, and I got a warning from the Mobile Coffeehouse's dashboard computer. It said, “Hi. Your coolant levels are a little low, pull over when you get a chance.” That's almost verbatim what it said. The Mobile Coffeehouse has a pretty sophisticated system that is way better than Siri, you Apple Juice people!
No sweat. Rick Lewis taught me to always carry a couple of gallons of coolant. I made the decision to stop at the next truck stop and add some of the good stuff to the reservoir.
In order to do that, I had to open the hatch in the back. And, in order to do that, I had to fold the bikes out of the way so that the hatch could be opened to give me access. Not a problem, because the bike rack that Professor Burgess mandated that all of the band members get, the one that we paid a gazillion dollars for, bee tee dubs, has that feature: step on the pedal, bikes fold down, and VOILA! I was able to get to the engine and the coolant reservoir.
After spilling coolant all over the ground, the back of the RV, me, and the HB, we managed to add about a teaspoonful into the tank. I closed the hatch, shut and checked all of the storage doors. We bounded up the RV steps, into the lav, and we washed our hands of the pink sticky fluid that was to keep our engine at a moderate temperature.
Twenty minutes after a brief stop in Victorville, the HB and I were back on the Fifteen, tootling our way toward Vegas.
Did any of you happen to think to yourself, “Hey …wait a minute …didn't they miss a step?”
Yeah, we did. And it only took me about, ohhhh, forty miles to remember that forgotten step but important procedure.
I was looking at the camera — yup, we use a camera, because a rear view mirror just won’t work. One, no rear window. Two, it’s 40 doggone feet to the back of the motorhome, for the love of Pete! How practical would a rear-view mirror be? Anyway, I was looking at the camera, and something in my mind said, “Does that look right to you?” Something was off, and I was having a problem shaking the feeling that there was just something a little bit different about that picture.
Two more miles down the road, and it came to me.
I glanced over at the HB, who was sitting in her easy chair, better known as the co-pilot’s seat. Feet up, the seat back reclined just enough in preperation for her to doze off at any minute. She looked very content, giggling quietly to herself as she thumbed her way through the latest cat videos on YouTube.
In my opinion, she appeared a little too pleased with herself, and I felt that if I were feeling some sort of way, then she should feel a little tension also. I mean, it was only fair. Don't for one second think that I've forgotten all the times she has stirred herself from some dream that she had where I did something that offended her in some small fashion, and I get a punch in the arm as a wake-up.
“Hey, guess what?” I said to her.
The HB looked at me, irritated because she had to pause YouTube, no matter how briefly. “Ugh, what now?” It almost sounded as if I was bothering her or something.
“I forgot to lift the bikes back into position when we left the truck stop.”
“OH NO!” She sat up straight, the kittens no longer had her attention; she was totally focused on me now. “What are we going to do?”
“Not a lot to be done. I’ll get off at the next off ramp and lift them back into the position they should be in.”
The HB sat, staring off into the distance, her phone paused, the image of a Tabby kitten, its paw frozen midair, over a ball of pink yarn, pre-strike.
Several more miles down the interstate, an exit finally appeared. I pulled off and stopped, precariously balancing our 80,000-pound motorhome as near to the shoulder as I dared, fearing real catastrophe if I got any closer to the edge.
I walked to the back, lifted the bikes, surveyed the damage, and cried a little bit. My beautiful Shiny Marble had a dent and some scratches. To me, utter devastation. The HB said it didn't look that bad. “It just looks like someone keyed your hood.”
It was at that point that I came to the realization that I need to pay closer attention to the HB's associations. I have never had my car keyed. Everyone loves me. Who would key my car? How many times has the HB had her car keyed? How many cars has she keyed?
These are all very valid questions.
Oh well. I’m in the market for a good body man (or woman, I don’t wanna be sexist).
Did I mention that the HB scraped the bumper on a concrete trash can when we got here?
My poor car.
Some of you may have noticed the conspicuous absence of the usual star in all my stories, my BFF, Cmdr McCoc, and his adorable better half, Mrs. Scrubbles in this story. Well, it’s like this: Moe Landrum and his buddy, T.P. Davidson, have colluded with one another to steal my BFF.
Right now, as you read this, those two have spirited my BFF off to Grenada. Can you imagine that? They planned a trip to a Caribbean paradise and bribed him with 5-star accommodations. I have it on good authority that Mrs. Scrubbles was grinning from ear to ear as she was escorted to her seat in first class by a smiling flight attendant with a hot towel as a second flight attendant poured a healthy serving of Cristal into a champagne flute and handed it to her.
It's hard to believe they chose 2200-count sheets over a trip to the Nevada desert.
You know what to do! Drink ‘em if you got ’em!
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