Molly as in The Unsinkable Molly Brown.
Saturday was another gorgeous day in Oregon. The first storm hit, bringing winds and rain. What colors jangled on trees last weekend this weekend carpeted the ground. We drove to Lorane the long way and lunched at the little cafe. Blaise was given a giant cupcake with a candle by the owner. It feels very comfortable being there, especially when outside is driving rain. (There were two grim-looking, obviously very dedicated, thoroughly soaked bicycle riders sitting there when we arrived.)
Ken and his wife, Barbara, were very welcoming. It was good to see Ken again. I think it safely can be said we got more than a motorhome out of this deal. The motorhome: there she sat wearing a what-took-you-so-long expression on her face (if a motorhome can be said to have a face). It was Blaise's first time seeing her. Blaise was our documentarian. He drove back with me in the Travco. The filthy beast. A wasp at one point lazed on the video camera as it rested on the seat, during which period very little documentation occurred. He thought the ride back was cool. And it was. But not nearly so cool as having a ten year-old named Blaise.
The fuel pump didn't work. Jenna had earlier expressed her suspicion it wouldn't. I believed that it would. I believed that there would be absolutely no problems. I do that sometimes. A 1976 Travco....no problems. Sad. I think all the rain softened my head. After Ken replaced the fuel pump with one out of a Toyota, it was discovered that all that new gas line I installed a few weekends back was connected to the wrong tube. (Gasoline pumped into space. How much did we lose? I had only brought 2 five gallon cans. Could we make it home with what was left?)
Excitement! Drama!
Ken had kindly cleaned the windshield wipers (not that it really helped all that much) and checked Molly's bodily fluids. When she first started up, the coach filled with smoke. Condensation. Steam. Finally, warmed up, her engine cover back on, I climbed behind the wheel. The tilting wheel. My head about eight feet off the ground. Rain chattering against the roof, I depressed the pedal and...well, we drove home, at times perilously close to the shoulder of the road. Obviously, we had enough gas. I dropped Blaise off at the house and he had the camera rolling when, after going around the block, I drove Molly into her new moorage.
And to top everything, I received a call that very evening from Bill, the former owner (one of them, I haven't sorted them all out yet) and we had a great little (insert baby screaming in background) talk about (what else) the Travco. I had to cut and run, get back to being daddy, but I invited him to come over sometime (he lives nearby) and reminisce.
Today, Sunday, I'll steal some time and start washing away the green streaks and moss. Right now Tristan is at my arm pleading for attention, so I gots to run.
And as for my father dying? Well, that's another horse altogether.
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