The Cousin Eddy Camper

Long before there was a cabin on my acreage there was a campground. The campground consisted of the sauna, a privy, and a small clearing for parking a camper. However, the concept of dragging our plush and shiny camper through the forest was a point of contention. It goes without saying that I repeatedly lost that argument and the campground remained camper-less.

Then one fine day while trolling Craigslist a veteran RV materialized upon the screen. A product of the glorious harvest gold 1970’s, that Craigslist camper was old and crusty and woefully outdated but still ran and could be driven and boasted a meager $900.00 price tag. A few days later, keys and title hot in my hand, that camper christened “Bertha” by the previous owners was rechristened “The Cousin Eddy Camper” and scraped its way through the brush and low hanging branches to my previously camper-less campground.

With a shape that can only be described as the futuristic styling of a stylist trapped in the groovy 1970’s, The Cousin Eddy Camper quickly became the butt of many a joke. But despite the quirky appearance there were redeeming qualities. The interior, although never upgraded and still bathed in the glow of harvest gold and with plush carpet, was mostly clean and mostly devoid of camper funk. It ran and drove, and while the brakes sort of occasionally worked the front bumper always worked. It was dry and had no leaks. The interior lights and fridge mostly worked. It was as comfortable as the groovy 1970’s. Far from being butt-hurt by the barrage of ratty camper jokes, a photo of a certain fictional character emptying an RV shitter into a storm drain was proudly hung.

That old camper contained the beer fridge for many a summer get-together and became the warmup shack for winter bonfires. Post sauna Saturday nights were spent crashing in The Cousin Eddy Camper. Despite being overall quite clean, there were some curious stains on the mattress that weirded me out just a bit, as one can never be quite certain what sort of groovy stain producing activities may have been going on upon that mattress back in the 1970’s. I always slept in a sleeping bag upon the banco rather than in the bedroom upon that stained mattress.

There came a night when marital bliss imploded, and I escaped from the household with the shiny camper in tow. The Cousin Eddy Camper was moved aside, and the shiny camper complete with a stain free mattress took its place. Time marched on, the lawyers argued, the Judge listened intently then judged, and then one day the ink was dry on the divorce decree. On my side of the marital property settlement ledger was The Cousin Eddy Camper, stained mattress and all.

It was during the depths of the pandemic that I offered for sale the camper formerly known as Bertha, now known as The Cousin Eddy Camper. A young woman responded to my ad. She explained matter of fact that this marvel of 1970’s held great appeal, particularly at the asking price point. We negotiated a very soft price then arranged a viewing.  A little voice inside told me to remove the photo of a certain fictional character emptying an RV shitter into a storm drain and I did.

On viewing day, she stepped into the camper and looked about and ran her hands across the antiquated harvest gold surfaces then welled up with tears. “Less than you expected?”, I asked apologetically. She had driven a long way to view the camper. “No, I have not had a place to call my own for over a year”, she sobbed. A lump formed in my throat.

To me, my friends, and family that old camper was a quaint joke, a funny reference to a fictional character emptying an RV shitter into a storm drain. But to this young woman that old camper might soon represent home and hearth, perhaps even hope.

I wanted to reach out and hug this human being and tell her everything would be alright, but it was the midst of a pandemic. We feigned a hug separated by an invisible prophylactic barrier and with masked faces turned away from each other. I fought back tears.

We tend to prop ourselves up by exhibiting empathy towards those we perceive as less fortunate. Our churches tell us to help those less fortunate. Certain news media counter that it is those same less fortunate people that are the cause of all the problems. But it is humbling to look a person in the eye that you perceive as less fortunate and then suddenly realize you are both in the same boat, or both in the same ancient harvest gold RV, in this case. Neither of us had a solid foundation beneath us, nor did either of us have four permanent walls or a solid roof above to call our own.

I had the good fortune of having a job with benefits and a regular paycheck, had no idea what her financial status was, yet we were equals. I was staying in a camper to initially escape a failed relationship and ultimately spent 17 months there while the pendulum of fate swung back and forth. The buyer of The Cousin Eddy RV spent the previous year living in her car for reasons of her own.

While living in an RV out in the woods without year-round access, without modern creature comforts; all while being gainfully employed may not be homeless in spirit or definition, it is none-the-less outside of the American norm. It can be argued that such a lifestyle choice, if indeed it really was a conscious choice, might be indicative of less than stellar mental health, much as that same judgement is often heaped upon those experiencing honest-to-gosh real homelessness. Probably true.

But in those 17 months there were no distractions of the modern world. There was the great simplicity in having limited space and responsibilities. There was the saturating tranquility of the forest and the rhythmic patterns of nature that constantly reassure that seasonal change is on the horizon. Having made it through, it now does not matter whether that was 17 months spent in a camper with less than robust mental health or 17 months spent in a private think tank.

The path forward now is one of personal enrichment rather than accumulation. It may be easier to espouse the parable about the man so poor that all he had was his money when you really don’t have a lot of money, as a divorce can be quite hard on the pocketbook, but I do now understand. The sale of the Cousin Eddy Camper helped me understand. I will not be envious nor stand in awe of those who have more and will not think of those having less as being less than.

I have now created a solid foundation beneath me, have four permanent walls and a solid roof over head. I hope the young woman that purchased The Cousin Eddy Camper has the same.