My name is Brooke Bickler. I’m a college student—now 20 years old—but I was just 19 when I started rehabbing, restoring, rebuilding, or as I like to say, reviving vintage trailers. I’ve grown up surrounded by antiques and vintage treasures, including campers. As a kid, my family and I went camping almost every weekend in vintage trailers. Eventually, we upgraded to newer models with a few more modern amenities, but my love for classic caravans never faded.
At the beginning of this year, I found a little 1969 Shasta Compact on Craigslist. Over the phone, the seller made it sound like a real gem—a “fine dime,” as he put it. It felt almost too good to be true, especially since he was only asking $400. Honestly, the condition didn’t matter much to me. I’ve always seen potential where others see junk, and I’m pretty comfortable using power tools.
After driving a couple of hours to check out this supposed “fine dime,” my dad and I arrived to find the owner frantically slathering on caulking and house paint—old, chunky, and messy. It was clearly an attempt to cover up major issues. He was also oddly hesitant to let me look inside the trailer, which frustrated me. But I finally got in, and what I found was definitely no dime. It was more like a penny—and not even a shiny one.
Despite its poor condition (and evidence of drug use inside), I saw potential. I knew I could turn that tarnished penny into something special. After exchanging cash and the pink slip, I had unknowingly bought myself a very unlucky penny.
As we hitched the trailer to our car, one of the tire’s valve stems shot out, leaving us with a flat. Thankfully, there was a spare. But the problems didn’t stop there. On the way home, the trailer lights failed, and suddenly we heard a strange sound—then a loud CRUNCH! I thought someone had hit the trailer, but when I looked back, I saw the entire front had collapsed. The aluminum paneling had split and folded, shifting the front window to one side. We pulled over, but the damage was already done.
From that point on, we crept home at 30 mph on a 60 mph one-lane highway, dragging our unlucky Shasta behind us—and a long line of angry drivers behind that.
Once home, I discovered just how bad it was. The trailer had zero structural framing left—completely rotted from water damage and dry rot. Still, I realized it was actually a lucky penny for having made it home at all. That’s how she earned her name: Little Miss Penny—and inspired me to tile her countertop with more than 2,500 real pennies.
Originally, I wanted to use only pennies minted in 1969, the year the trailer was made. I cleaned out my bank’s supply, sorted through donated jars of coins from friends and family, but came up empty. No 1969 pennies. I even asked classmates and professors to help with the hunt. Eventually, I found five pennies from that year. Not enough for the whole counter, but five was better than none.
The trailer had to be completely rebuilt. With nothing original left inside, I gave Penny her own identity—fun, functional, and full of personality. I redesigned the layout to feel more spacious and gave her a bright, cheerful paint job. My dad helped when he had time off work, but I did the majority of the build myself.
Now, I’m hooked. I plan to keep Penny, but I’ve also completed and sold a 1973 Field and Stream to help pay for college tuition and books. Next up: a 1952 Cardinal and a 1958 Shasta Airflyte—both projects to help fund my education.
People often tell me they don’t see the point in saving trailers in such bad shape. But proving them wrong is part of what drives me. Even when they can’t be restored to factory-original condition, these trailers still deserve to be saved. They’re pieces of history—and I love giving them new life.
If others feel the same joy from owning and camping in vintage trailers as I do, then saving them is absolutely worth it.
This article was initially published in 2016 in the Vintage Camper Trailers magazine, and Brooke went on to be a professional restorer, finishing many projects over the years.
