“That’s it,” my 73 year-old husband, Joe, declared, “No more tenting, we’re buying a trailer.”
With that goal in mind, we headed straight to “Mega Camper World” where the front desk gestapo demanded an address, email, phone number, and first-born son before permitting us to enter. Alright, he didn’t actually demand our first-born, but he would have if he’d thought of it.
There was a deadening sameness about the vehicles crowding the asphalt lot. One after another, we hopefully popped through entry doors only to face the same neutral hued plastic and particle board interior. Artificial light was a must, as windows were small and sparse. It felt like I was visiting a poorly decorated doctor’s office waiting room, again and again. Excitement occurred only when viewing the heart-stopping prices.
“If we HAVE to get a trailer, let’s get a vintage one,” was my suggestion. My primary motivation was to qualify to join the Tin Can Club. From what I had read about vintage trailer rallies, they opened an entire new world of camaraderie. These folks had potlucks, game nights, theme contests, singalongs and other fun from days-gone-by, and they did it all in-person, rather than just online!
We began our search with the best of intentions. After combing through the tome “Glamping With MaryJane,” we compiled a 20-point check-list for evaluating vintage buys. Next we searched online market places, planning to visit the most likely trailers in person. The first two foraging expeditions saw us devotedly consulting our check-list and crossing off non-contenders. Then it was on to the wilds of Idaho.
We pulled up to a lonesome residence balanced on a monstrous cliff overlooking the Snake River. The lady of the house seemed starved for company as she hustled me inside to see her craft offerings while Joe looked over the trailer. By the time I joined him, we were committed to head to the nearest town for a cashier’s check that nearly bankrupted our savings account.
Raindrops fell fast and furious on our homeward journey, but Joe assured me the seller had indicated the 1958 Shasta Airflyte was weather-tight. He was mistaken. He also neglected to mention the gaping hole in the front sheathing where a fire had broken out between the propane tank and the stove, the resident mice, stained walls and ceiling, the soon-to-peel housepaint used to coat the trailer’s cheery exterior, and the broken leaf springs.
After months of repair, sanitizing, painting, building new seating, sewing curtains and cushions and learning the rudiments of auto upholstery through much trial and error, especially error, I asked Joe about the check-list.
“I never looked at it,” he confessed. “I saw by the look in your eyes that you loved it, so I bought it.”
If I had consulted out check-list, I never would have agreed to the purchase. I would have been wrong. We had so much fun together refurbishing “BettyLou” as we call her, it would have been worth the work even if we never made it to our first Tin Can Rally (a vintage trailer event).
We developed more new skills than we thought possible and had a great time in the process.
What can you do with a fella like that, but love him?
by Deborah Castañeda
