The day the electricity went out was the same day I finished paying for my 1985 Winnebago camper. This was quite an accomplishment for me and involved a diet of quesadillas and instant coffee.
“I told you we should have planted a garden this year,” I said to no one in particular, leaning toward the light of the window to pluck some hangnails. Abby gave me a weird look, but said nothing. It was the first of March.
What I really meant was that we should have planted one last year, though I hadn’t had the idea of planting one til this year. Sometimes that’s just how I talk.
Kenny slammed into the house and flicked a light switch. He flicked it again. He looked at us. Like Abby, he made no comment; we’d all known it was coming.
We had a good thaw a week later. During that week, I’d gone to the library and researched the conversion of a standard well to a manually-pumped well. It was just one of those things I thought of. We’d debated building a windmill, but didn’t have the materials. I had to hand it to Kenny; he searched online forums and junkyards, and came up with the hand pump. Meanwhile, our water came from an artesian well located forty-five minutes away.
But frankly, I lost interest in making it work there. I’d paid my share of rent and utilities. I had a very good attitude about it, I felt. But Kenny and Abby spent their money one food and entertainment they couldn’t really afford, and it was I who swore and skinned my knuckles and bloodied my knee in the process of trying, and failing, to replace the electric pump with a manual.
So I hopped into the Winnebago……
