My neighbor maneuvered his elephantine Winnebloato motorhome into his driveway. As he climbed down from his cab, I hurried through a driving rain and joined him in his garage. I couldn’t wait to hear how he’d made out on his maiden voyage as a snowbird.

“Welcome back,” I said, pulling off my glasses and wiping them off. “You sure picked a good winter to get out of Rhody. It was like Antarctica here. Did you miss the ocean state?”

He climbed down from his cab. “No, well, yeah. I woulda gave my left nut for a pile of fried clams around February. Heard you guys had it wicked cold, though. Cripes, it’s STILL forty degrees and here it is JUNE. This weather goes right to my bones . . .”

“So. How was your trip?”

He pulled off his FLO’S CLAM SHACK ball cap, scratched his balding head. “Great. Except for the company . . .”

“Company. You and your wife had trouble in paradise?”

“Hunh-uh. We got along fine. No, it was my mother-in-law. THAT was the problem.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Get outa heah. You took your mother-in-law along? Well, I suppose your rig’s easily big enough to sleep three.”

“Sleeps TWO,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, but it’s thirty-six feet long and—”

He fixed me with a piercing look.

“I gotta hear all about it,” I said, rubbing my hands together.

“Okay, let’s start with the Grand Canyon. My mother-in-law was so preoccupied with sorting her coupons? She barely gave the canyon a nod. And when we asked if she wanted to see the museum, she said, ‘What, do I look like an archeologist? I’ve seen all the bones I needa see in Rajah Williams Park.’”

“I'm starting to get the picture,” I said.

“In Las Vegas,” he continued, “we got a spot in a fabulous RV Park but she was worried about her money. Get this: she made a makeshift money belt out of one of her old bras.”

“A money belt. Out of a bra?”

“Yeah, and somehow, she lost it. Don't ask me how. $300 gone without even one pull of a slot machine.”

I envisioned an old woman’s money belt bra lying on a casino floor.

He scowled. “She continually complained that she was cold so we headed for Texas to get warm, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, huh?”

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“Here’s where it gets good. My mother-in-law? She happens to be a compulsive talker, see? In Laredo, Texas, her constant droning had me crazy. If I was home? Ida checked my ass into Butler. Anyway, I forgot what I was driving and I ran the motahome under one of those corrugated tin roofs at a hamburger joint. Ripped the air-conditioner loose on our roof, Freon squealed out, and my mother-in-law started shrieking.”

My eyes widened. “Whoa.”

“A crowd gathered. We were definitely stuck tight, jammed under that tin roof. But we were in luck because some good ol’ boy Texans came from a garage across the street with some poles and jacked up the roof so we could squeeze out.”

“That definitely had to be the worst part of your trip,” I said, wagging my head.

“No, not really. My mother-in-law finally stopped shrieking and saying, ‘Omigod. Omigod.’ I thanked the Texans, removed wrecked A/C, duct-taped a trash bag over the gaping hole, and we were on our way.”

“You should’ve duct-taped you mother-in-law's mouth shut,” I observed and we both laughed.

He started waving his arms like John Madden, saying, “Of course, it rained BUCKETS and the garbage bag repair job leaked. And by the time we got to Judge Roy Bean's place? The rain let up but my mother-in-law was backing out of the motahome door, lost her footing, and tumbled down an embankment. Ass over teacart.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Was she hurt?”

“She mostly ended up with a bunch of cactus needles stuck in her butt, which my wife joyfully picked out later. At that point, she shoulda had enough of the RV lifestyle, right? So, we offered to put her on a plane for T.F. Green but she refused. Said it'd cost too much. We told her we'd foot the bill but she nixed that, too. Better to complain.”

I wagged my head.

“Then we moved on to Big Bend National Park where she never came out of the motahome. Said she was afraid the coyotes might EAT her. She sat in there for two days, complaining, eating refried beans, and passing gas. The wife and I spent a LOT of time outdoors.”

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“THAT had to be the worst!”

“Well, then we drove back to Rhody, almost non-stop.”

“Not a bad idea, considering,” I said. “But I’d better get going.” I started walking back home but suddenly I stopped, turned around.

“That part about the refried bean fallout. That HAD to be the worst part of your trip, right?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “The worst part? Nope. The worst part was that my misery was all SELF-IMPOSED. You see, I’M the clamhead who suggested we take her along in the first place. See, I forgot the first rule of any RV.”

“First rule? What’s that?”

“Sleeps two . . .”

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About the author, J. Evan Whitford: J. Evan Whitford, a frequent contributor to RIRoads, is a freelance writer living in Jamestown, RI. He specializes in humorous fiction, has had short pieces published in several different magazines, and his novel will be out in the bookstores in 2005

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