by David James
I believe that David’s tendency to break things and injure himself is not because he is clumsy. He’s not. My theory is that it stems from the way he grew so tall, so fast, as a child. He never quite figured out his proportion to the world around him. According to family lore, when he was in his thirteenth year, he was so skinny that his hands looked like olives on the end of toothpicks. It’s a challenge to overcome dimensions like that.
Back from my errand, with a sack of hardware goodies in hand, I opened the RV door to find David standing in the middle of the kitchen area, messing with the overhead light fixture. To add a little spice to the mix, the light was on. The man will never learn about electricity.
“I found some superglue.”
“I thought we agreed I would fix that.”
“But I found some glue, so I figured . . .”
“Well, turn the light off. You’re going to electrocute yourself.”
“I can’t.”
“Will you please just go outside?” I was trying really hard to keep my cool.
“I can’t.”
“Dammit! Stop saying you can’t and just go outside!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?!”
That was when I noticed the shreds of paper towel attached to his free hand and a few tatters clinging around the corners of his mouth. His other hand was space-age-polymer-bonded to the overhead light fixture, which was now permanently secured in the ON position.
The motor home was old and didn’t have all the pretty bells and whistles found on newfangled behemoths. No microwave, dishwasher, or coffee machine—those suck down too much power and take up too much space. They could also turn into dangerous missiles when en route. And the oven and refrigerator were dinky; we wouldn’t be cooking Thanksgiving dinners for the family in this kitchen.
The bathroom was tiny, but I found the humor in it. If I closed the toilet seat and perched at the perfect angle, I could use the mirror over the sink and have a vanity.
I didn’t want to do a lot of remodeling—I’d had quite enough of that lately—but I could not abide the craggy 1970s earth tones and wheat stalk wallpaper. Something had to be done. Not wanting to sink a bunch of money into a vehicle of such advanced age, I gave myself a budget of $150 and got to work on making the place homey.
Deciding to add some flair, I bought two area rugs and a runner in a red-and-rust bold, boxy pattern, a slipcover for the couch in red-on-red vertical stripes, a small can of bright ruby paint, and some gold glitter. As I worked, I daydreamed about how I would have a brand-new view out of the windows every day. No amount of redecorating could hold a candle to that image.
Voilà. In just a few hours the formerly hideous wallpaper in the kitchen and bathroom areas became red and sparkly. The carpet was mostly hidden. The slipcover looked good, even if it was going to need constant tweaking, and considering the couch was basically an elaborate water tank cover, I’d just go with it. Most satisfying, the lingering eau de cannabis and canine were gone.
I excitedly snapped some pictures of my handiwork and shot them off in an email to The Piglet and Decibel. I wasn’t expecting a whole lot of enthusiasm, considering The Boy’s initial reaction to our gypsy wagon was, “You guys are going to live in your car?” Kids these days.
I nervously awaited the girls’ responses. I certainly didn’t want to go through life being an embarrassment to all three of my kids. One of them should understand, right?
I immediately heard back from The Piglet, who pronounced my handiwork “cute.” Sweet relief poured over me. The Piglet, now a big-city journalist, is quite the style diva. She moonlights on weekends as a hostess in a Soho restaurant just to keep herself in designer shoes. I was over-the-moon at her reaction. The girl obviously has taste.
When Decibel’s reply popped up in my inbox it went one step further, “He’s BAMF. When do I get to come on a trip?”
BAMF? I had to Google it. Hmmmm—makes sense. Our radiant, fast-walking, subway-chasing, F-bomb-dropping, black-wearing, taxi-flagging, urbanite daughter had named our new vehicle. BAMF. Bad Ass Mo Fo. Brilliant child.
It seemed right, though, and totally in keeping with our vehicle-naming tradition. So it stuck.
BAMF was ready to roll. Part of the fun of mobile living would be learning as we went, or so I was telling myself. Some modern-day conveniences would be easier to give up than others. Even though I had no clue how to heat up leftovers or make popcorn without a microwave, I was fairly certain it was possible. I had to give up my cappuccino machine when we left St. Croix—I had been drinking coffee straight-up since—but now I had to learn to make it on a stove top. A breeze, right?
And what about the days with no Internet access? Or electricity? What would become of my hair without blow dryers, curling irons, and hot rollers? Was I destined for a life of eternal straggly ponytails?
These were just the little things.
As excited as I was to jump into BAMF’s navigator seat and roll, there was a nagging, creeping feeling hanging ’round. In the back of my mind’s eye, there was a snapshot of David and me stranded on the side of the road surrounded by our meager belongings.
The reality of our new wanderlustful life began to sink in after I pried David’s fingers from the light fixture and we spent our first night in BAMF. We had gone about three hundred miles south and found a campground outside of small-town America. We were overjoyed. BAMF had performed brilliantly; we cooked in our little kitchen, and had a few celebratory beers while poking at a campfire. We could do nothing but laugh at our audacity, truly in awe of ourselves for pulling off this whole crazy endeavor. The world was our oyster, and we couldn’t decide what to bite off first.
But as we laid ourselves down to sleep in BAMF’s loft for the first time, I listened to the crickets, and doubt began to creep in, with a vengeance. Holy crap, The Boy was right—we were sleeping in our car.
I sat straight up, a colossally bad idea since the bed loft is only two-and-a-half feet tall, and saw stars when my head collided with the ceiling. The pain sent me over the edge. Let the panic begin! My “what-if” tape loop play button was pressed and the band started rockin’.
What if there are road bandits out there? Could we fend them off? What sort of implements are needed to repel road bandits? Do road bandits still exist?
What if other people think we are actually homeless? Are we actually homeless? Why do I care what people think? Get real, I care what people think.
What if we get stranded in the middle of the desert? Would we have to wait for days for help? What if we don’t have enough water? Does it hurt if a tumbleweed hits you?
What if those aren’t crickets I’m hearing? Could they be mountain lions? Do they have mountain lions in Indiana? I’m in Indiana. What would the people of Indiana think of us? Why do I care what . . .
I had worked myself up to the point of tears, but really all of this was secondary or perhaps just a cover for the real question. Could I really do this? Could I really not have a home, a place for Christmas stockings, pictures on the walls, keepsakes that are now all sitting in boxes in a dark storage unit?
Knowing sleep was not going to visit anytime soon, I climbed out of BAMF’s loft to get something frozen out of the freezer to soothe my banged-up noggin. Ah, a bag of peas—perfect. My plan was quickly thwarted when I realized that everything in the freezer had defrosted on the trip down. Great, could we be more unprepared for our future?
Plopping down on the couch, bag of lukewarm peas balanced on my head, I began an attempt to calmly sort out my fears. Obviously, I had to stop worrying about what people might think of me. Not an easy task, because over the years I had stupidly chosen to value my self-worth by comparing myself to others. Sitting in a beat-up motor home, in the middle of nowhere, with thawing vegetables on one’s head and reeking of campfire seemed a scenario that would occupy the bottom rung of any comparison. It might make for a funny vacation story—remember that time we went camping and all t
he food spoiled on the first day?—but this was my new real life. Any hope of embracing it would require that I put my trust in us. Only myself and David, our resurgent Nation of Two, outside opinions be damned.
Acknowledging my public perception problem was a strong step toward recovery, and the only step my brain could possibly tackle that night—the lump on my head saw to that.
Calmer, I returned to the loft, snuggled up with David, and hoped that I would survive the next day, my first Mother’s Day without chicks in the nest.
13
Mama Loves a Ball of Paint
Keeping a return of the tears at bay could have been a serious undertaking, but by mid-morning I’d received happy Mother’s Day phone calls from all three of The Spawn. Each sent their love and best wishes while expressing their undying gratitude for my bearing them in pain. The waterworks had been held back for the moment, but once the offspring had finished sharing all of the wonderful things going on in their busy lives, the rest of my day loomed menacingly. Weeping was imminent.
This GypsyNesting Mama needed a diversion. It couldn’t be just any diversion; it had to be something so spectacular that any sort of baby-missing histrionics would be nipped in the bud. I went over ideas in my head.
A brunch at a really, really nice restaurant? No, just the thought of David and I surrounded by long tables of celebrating families with macaroni-art gifts bestowed by pancake-syrup-sticky hands wouldn’t work. The very idea of food reminded me of those wonderful Mother’s Day mornings of days gone by. My mind drifted back to the pitter-patter of tiny footie-jammied feet serving up breakfast in bed, featuring shell-fragment-laced scrambled eggs and scraped, smoky toast balanced precariously on a tray with a Kwik Sak–bought carnation sticking out of a soda can for a touch of sophistication. That sort of heaven cannot be duplicated.
After discussing the possibilities, David and I decided that anything even remotely traditional would not do. So what to do in the heart of Indiana?
A quick Internet search revealed the attractions in our vicinity. We patiently scanned through several not-as-spectacular-as-needed entries when—eureka!—we hit the mother of all cheesy tourist diversions—the World’s Largest Ball of Paint. The best part? It was an interactive display—visitors actually get to paint the thing. Better yet, each coat adds to the ever-growing world record. Just the thought of adding a record-setting layer of pigment to a gigantic paint ball made me forget I ever even had kids.
One snag: the Ball of Paint was viewable by appointment only, so we crossed our fingers and called. Score! The Ball’s caretaker would see us on a Sunday (and Mother’s Day to boot) with only a few hours’ notice. What a guy, he must have felt the pain brewing deep within my heart.
Arriving at the paint ball pavilion, we were struck by the enormity of the situation. The planet of pigment was suspended from a huge iron girder, and was so gargantuan that a paint roller affixed to a long stick was required to reach its poles. A mirror had been placed on the ground below it to enable proper viewing while painting the nether regions.
Mike Carmichael, the man behind this record-breaking undertaking, shook our hands and enthusiastically answered our barrage of questions. The obvious came first.
“How many?” 21,822 coats.
“How much?” Over three thousand pounds.
“Why?” It just sort of happened.
Turns out there was never any grand plan to create this colossus; it started with a happy mishap back in 1964. Mike and a high school buddy were tossing around a baseball when an errant throw landed in a can of paint. This got Mike to wondering, What would it look like if I added a bunch of coats to the baseball, then cut the whole thing in half? He just wanted to see the rings, like on a tree.
Neighbors and kinfolk encouraged him to add more and more layers, but as the paint ball grew, they began to lobby against splitting the paint-clad sphere. Years passed and Mr. Carmichael found himself with a massive orb hanging from a chain in a spare bedroom.
“Did your wife mind?” I asked, looking out the window at Mrs. Carmichael celebrating Mother’s Day surrounded by her grandchildren.
“Not a bit.” Mike smiled. “Glenda has added over eight thousand layers herself.”
After years of keeping his masterwork strictly among family and friends, Mike felt the need to reveal it to the world. A pavilion, sponsored by Sherwin-Williams, was built to showcase the ever-growing globe, and the accolades soon followed.
Relocating the seven-foot sphere meant knocking out a wall of the Carmichael home and utilizing a forklift for the jaunt to the more fitting domicile. In doing so Mike proved the theory, “if you build it, they will come.”
By no means are visitors to Mike’s masterpiece a rarity. Thousands of people, from at least twenty-five countries, have made the pilgrimage to add their coats of paint and receive a certificate commemorating the event. One layer even included a marriage proposal (she said yes!).
The ball has been featured in The Guinness Book of World Records, on Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and on several television networks. The walls of the pavilion are papered with photos of dozens of celebrities who have stopped by to pay homage and add a coat. The David Letterman Show made arrangements for Mike to bring the ball to their studios, but Mike declined, feeling that the behemoth must be seen in its proper home. Besides, you never know what might happen if a ton and a half of dried paint was turned loose in the Big Apple.
After we had viewed every angle and discussed every aspect, Mike finally uttered the words that David and I were dying to hear.
“What color do you want to use?”
With a quick scan of the dozen or so vats of paint, we grabbed our rollers and lovingly added layer number 21,823, in red. Once our coat was completed, I hand-painted a lovely Mother’s Day stick figure tribute to our children, right on the globe’s equator. I believe even Mike, who had seen most everything paint related in his time as curator, may have been tearing up.
Feeling the pride of being new world record holders, we contently walked away with our souvenir paint chip, the official Certificate of Coat #21823, and a commemorative T-shirt. As we made our way back to BAMF, I turned around and shouted to Mike one last question.
“What’s your regular job?”
“I’m a painter.”
Perfect.
14
We’re Too Old for This Crap
I might superglue myself to an overhead light fixture now and then, but I’m not stupid, and I’m not deaf, or blind . . . yet.
I could see that Veronica was obviously having issues transitioning into our new lifestyle. The Ball of Paint certainly helped distract her, but that was more than likely a temporary reprieve. She has always had a house, a sanctuary where, even if I was out on the road, she had the kids, a family, and that made it her home. Now she was going to have to come to terms with cutting those ties.
I must admit, I certainly found comfort in having a hearth and home myself, but the adjustment would be much less difficult for me, since I had traveled relentlessly most all of my adult life. I spent the better part of our last ten years in Nashville trying to find ways to reduce my touring commitments and spend more time at home. There were all sorts of good reasons for this, most pertaining to being a better husband and father, but there was also the reality that I felt like I was getting too old for the grind. That was a lot of the reason we ended up in St. Croix. It was somewhere I could stay put for a while.
So how was I suddenly not too old to embark on a sort of open-ended road trip? Hadn’t I spent enough time in large tin cans rolling down the highway to last a lifetime?
Maybe not. With the kids grown and after a bit of a break, I felt like I was ready to do a little wandering again. My thinking was that if Veronica could come along, we could enjoy all of the good parts of life on the road and eliminate most of the bad. How great would it be to see new places together and endlessly explore just-over-the-horizon without soundchecks, setting up and tearing down the
stage, or eating greasy truck stop cheeseburgers at three in the morning?
Pretty great, I’d say, and I was pretty sure Veronica would end up loving it.
Even though I was fully confident that we would wind up happily bouncing down the highway, there was a tiny voice asking questions in the back of my mind.
What about both of you living together 24-7 in a space roughly the size of a walk-in closet? Can you really spend all of your time with each other? Generally I would just tell the voice to shut up, but the fact was I didn’t have the answers to those inquiries. Forging ahead was the only way to find them.
The maiden voyage of our new rolling home had BAMF setting a course south from the great Midwest toward Nashville, Tennessee. Music City, USA, was still home to many of our oldest and dearest friends, and two of my brothers. Several folks had even been kind enough to offer their driveways for us to “camp” in.
Veronica and I had quite a few people on our must-see list for our time in Tennessee, but a couple of guys, William and Steve, would not be on our itinerary.
We had been very close, working together in a band for many years, spending every waking moment with each other when we were on the road. I even roomed with William while we slogged through tours so grueling he sardonically dubbed them The Death March to Bataan and The Bring Your Helmet Tour, perhaps with a nod to his days in Vietnam. In the throes of these arduous excursions, William was the one who kept us laughing. The original Rockin’ Hill–William.
But my last encounter with him was under less than stellar circumstances. The same with Steve. Business differences and personal problems pretty much destroyed the group, and our affinity. I wasn’t planning on letting them know that we’d be in town.
