Jack and I are taking to the road. Our mode of transportation is a beast, or more lovingly the beast: a combination of Wiley, a three quarter ton Chevy pickup with four wheel drive AND four wheel steering—a grandiose hand-me-down from my soon to be father-in-law—and a slide in, pop-up camper nicknamed Anita after my maternal grandmother who had a travel bug to rival mine.
Jack took to the camper the way he does to most new things—first with bounding excitement, smelling everywhere, leaping from the bench to the bed to the floor and back, then he lay down and took a nap.
When I first purchased Anita her interior screamed grandma’s motorhome—beige fake wood paneling, drab wall paper, blue floral/leaf/swirl printed upholstery with blue curtains coated in the dust of many trips and a fake effervescently bright plant that resembled wheatgrass.
I set to work immediately painting, reupholstering and adding storage pockets and drawers wherever I could—under the table, to the walls, hanging things from the roof support. As I worked feverishly, my departure date looming, Jack lay by the door watching passersby with mild interest and complete comfort in his new abode. I did everything on a budget—buying things on sale or from thrift stores, using paint left over from various other projects and jerry rigging whatever I could. All in all, I think it turned out well. She is well organized and homey and ready for the road.