West Manzanita
I uber nonchalantly said,“I’ll drive.” . I knew to act calm and composed if I
was going to pull this off.
We were nearing
Chama, New Mexico and I graciously offered to drive the motorhome while my
husband, Gary, had an important conference call. This was all well and good; however, we had just
acquired a new motorhome and our purchase increased in size, both
physically (and monetarily).
We had recently
traded in our 35-foot motorhome. I had loved driving it, and even learned to
hitch the tow car, connect the electrical, water connection and alas, when
Gary wasn’t available, dump the tanks. I carefully adhered to the law of
tonnage, mimicking the semi drivers.
So, now we had
traded "up" to a 40-foot motorhome not only longer but wider. I was
determined to master this one too. My husband, being a most trusting soul,
agreed to my driving it while he took his business call.
My first time driving the forty footer! I consciously gave a brilliant
impersonation of knowing what I was doing as I settled into the driver’s seat.
I was not about to let him see that I was the least bit apprehensive. So what
if I wasn’t exactly sure of where the
controls for the turn signals and jake brake were? And if I wasn’t exactly sure what all those
other buttons and knobs were for? And I just would lean backwards to see out
the side view mirrors. Problem solved,
Fortunately, my
husband did not notice my well-veiled trepidation as he was attempting to dial
into his call. I exuded the epitome of false bravado. Regardless, we
were off! (I did know where the gas
pedal was). All was well with the world!
As we approached
Chama I noticed a detour from the highway through the town. Gary, now intensely
focused on his call, paused, held the phone to his chest, glanced towards me
and asked quietly,
“Do you see that
detour?”
I, focused intensely on staying between the lines, said, in a most exasperated manner,
“Yes, of course I see the detour.” Did he think I was blind??
I turned off the
highway onto a local street, weaving my way carefully through the residential
maze, diligently following the detour signs. This was no problem. No problem at
all. I had this under control. I was damn good!
At the end of
detour, on West Manzanita Street I was directed to again join the two-lane
highway. In front of my 40-foot motorhome were two passenger cars
stopped at the stop sign, turn signals indicating they were turning
south as I intended to do. And in front of the two cars were several highway
workers directing them, in a most animated manner, to avoid the freshly laid
blacktop in the northbound lane. I watched the two cars ahead of me executed the sharp
right turn precisely. It was now my turn.
Now I had been taught all my
life to do as I am told, mostly unsuccessfully, but this one time, one time...I mind. Observing this behemoth
approaching, these three men were frantically motioning and yelling at me to
“TURN RIGHT, TURN RIGHT!”, in order to avoid their beautiful newly laid, gooey,
ol’ blacktop. Did they have absolutely no regard for our beautiful new,
unscathed, shiny motorhome? Obviously not.
And therein lay the
problem. It’s one of life’s mysteries. Who’d a thunk an extra five feet
could make such a difference?
So, I tried. I
really did, and as Gary was concentrating on his call, trust and unconditional
love in his heart, I slowly proceeded, attempting the sharp right turn. And this behemoth
was turning and I was avoiding the blacktop. I was a good little girl. I glanced
in my rearview mirror to check my progress and...Oops. I saw the stop sign swaying drunkenly back and forth.
The back end of the motorhome had refused to follow the front end.
But now for the good
news. At least the stop sign was still there. I hadn’t knocked it down. And
the second good news was that Gary hadn’t noticed. Whew! Close call!
I knew that I would
have to deal with stop sign-height gashes along the side of our formerly
pristine coach, but I would think about that tomorrow. I finished the turn and
was merrily fleeing the scene of the crime, secretly hoping that I'd
screwed up their precious blacktop, and that they hadn't gotten my
license number.
Saved! Until...I
glanced again in the rear view mirror and saw a bright neon green street sign sticking
out perpendicularly from the top of the coach, caught on the awning cover.
Damn!
I look towards Gary,
who is deep in conversation and say as calmly as possible in this touchy
situation,
“Gary, sweetheart, I
believe there is a green street sign hanging from the awning.”
“What???”
Up until this
moment, he had been blissfully unaware of the driver’s predicament. He
continued, in a most exasperated tone, not wanting to interrupt his call,
“Just leave it,” he softly growled.
“Leave it?? Did you
say leave it? I am not going to drive down the highway with a bright green street sign hanging straight out from my coach!! No way!”
He then said,
directly into the phone, insult oozing in his tone (at least to my ears), “I have to get off
the call. My wife just hit a street sign and I have to deal with it.”
“Oh my god!”, I blurted as he’d quit his
call. “I can’t believe you said
that. Do you want those people to
think you’re married to an idiot?” Silence ensued.
they found me, they did get my license. I now own two West Manzanita signs. One of whichsits at the corner of West Manzanita and Highway 84 in Chama, New Mexico, and the other right where it belongs, proudly displayed in our motorhome.
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