At Home Wherever the Road Leads

By Sanda Horeis

After a long career as a journalist and communication specialist, Sanda Horeis and her husband, Willie (a longtime educator and guidance counsellor, sometimes referred to as “The German”), sold their home and much of the items inside, gathered all their belongings into a motorhome, and started out on their retirement adventure. As they crisscrossed the country, Sanda wrote wonderfully insightful a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leonard Flachman
• Release date: Jan 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781933794525

Sanda Horeis

Sanda Horeis edited a newspaper and served as a communication specialist for a national church body before embarking on her great retirement adventure. She currently lives in Harlingen, Texas. She and her husband, Willie, have two children.

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At Home Wherever the Road Bends

by Sanda Horeis

Kurt Reichardt, Editor

For Willie — The German

Copyright © 2011 Sanda Horeis, 3700 S. Westcourt #2379, Sioux Falls, SD 57106. All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

978-1-933794-49-5

Published by Quill House Publishers at Smashwords

Quill House Publishers, PO Box 390759, Minneapolis, MN 55439

www.quill-house.com

Acknowledgements

The author is grateful for the assistance in producing this book from former colleagues Kathryn Brewer of Brewer Communications, Inc. for the cover, layout and production; and Laurel Hensel, who together with Rod Richey, provided the final read-through and text review.

Editor’s Note

Sanda Horeis and I had spent a decade as journalistic colleagues when, in 1997, she retired. Together with husband Willie, they embarked on what was to be their greatest adventure. Since Sanda and I both loved to write, we kept in touch and, in that way, my spouse and I were able to go along for the ride. I provided shop gossip while she, crisscrossing the country, wrote glorious, opinionated, descriptive prose — and often side-splitting accounts of road and RV camp experiences. I kept every letter.

Sanda always talked about finishing her novel, but by the time I retired four years later, I realized that I had possession of something much better: a real-life adventure with the man she calls The German and an assortment of road warriors they had met. We agreed that I should begin bringing the letters together from the beginning at Rainbows End — creating a manuscript that linked each road tale with the anticipation of new days that were — like the Johnny Mercer song* — always waiting ’round the bend in the road.

A couple of times we met them and experienced the joy of two drifters off to see the country — if not the world. When the letter came which introduced their Huckleberry friend, I somehow knew — and told Sanda — This is where the story ends. I meant that it was time to finish the manuscript but, as it happened, the adventure itself was to end all too soon. In 2006, Sanda suffered a stroke, and her partial paralysis included her writing hand. The spirit is undaunted, but we print journalists know that our brains, perception, vocabulary, and articulation are all lodged in finger tips that race across pages — at first with pens and now on computer keys.

So the letters of those five years began to accompany me on vacations, shared the lives of several scanners and even fried a laptop computer in England. The manuscript was a labor of love and, as Sanda began to heal and we got older, the determination was renewed: she to have the book in print, and I to pass along the delightful prose and wonderful experiences with anyone who has thought about hitting the road and letting the spirit roam free. When you’ve read the book, you’ll understand what I mean.

– Kurt A. Reichardt, Autumn 2011

*Johnny Mercer, Moon River, © 1961 Paramount Music Corporation, ASCAP

Preface

Awakening the Dream

1975 to 1997, Minnesota to Illinois

When that last school year ended, we sold the house, gave all our remaining stuff away, moved into the motor home and began our long adventure of discovery. Seven years into it, we have no regrets.

In 1975, when a 6,000-mile summer-long family odyssey aboard a tiny motor home concluded in the driveway of our four-bedroom pseudo colonial home in Minnesota, thoughts of resuming life within those four walls were daunting.

Life had been so simple in our home on the road. Dad, Mom and the two kids — each equipped with only three changes of clothing, a set of eating utensils, sleeping bag, camera, backpack, art supplies, favorite sports gear and plenty of books — were free to explore the world. Standing in the driveway of our substantial 2,000-square-foot house, I realized the things we treasured most — uninterrupted conversations with our children, the magnificence of vast forests, the roar of the surf, the utter stillness of a starry mountain nights, the warmth of a campfire, new friends in far-off places — were things we could not own. At the end of our adventure, the possession-stuffed edifice we called home seemed somewhat absurd. Did we own this stuff, or did this stuff own us?

Although we continued to raise our kids in that house, we also continued our summer adventures, sans stuff. Then came a detour on the road to independence. After years as a newspaper woman, I decided on one more employment adventure — working as a communicator for the new Chicago-based Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA). Willie, my wide-bodied and big-

hearted husband who, because he counters my impious Danish heritage with stubborn Teutonic determination and has become lovingly known as The German, was game to come along. We downsized into a town home; some of the stuff went along.

Now while I wrote copy, supervised videos, planned convention displays, edited jargon created by church bureaucrats and discovered that I was becoming one myself, The German commuted to the inner city to work with the poorest of the poor students in an archdiocese high school. Each had its rewards, but still firmly convinced that we’d rather do than have stuff, we began the process of paring down possessions even more. If it doesn’t fit in a motor home, we don’t need it, became the mantra that made eliminating things easier and prevented us from making new purchases.

When that last school year ended, we sold the house, gave all our remaining stuff away, moved into the motor home and began our long adventure of discovery. We never had regrets.

– Sanda Horeis, Summer 2011

Prologue

Born A’gin in Texas

December 23, 1997 - Rainbows End, Texas

We are now licensed to drive blind, faster than a bat out of hell, carrying concealed weapons.

A Rainbows End retiree ...

A rip-roarin’ Texas frog-drowning gully washer, complete with booming thunder and lots of lightning, has knocked out our electricity repeatedly tonight, making TV viewing a spastic endeavor and scaring me out of the notion to use the computer. Must not let that expensive little beast be slain by a bolt of lightning. I may need it to help me supplement our income one day.

I had to make a decision about a job opportunity for which I did not go looking. While having a nice conversation with some of the writers here about articles for this club’s magazine, the editor asked me to meet with her privately in her office. She’s been at the job for eight years and wants me to think about replacing her. It’s a nice magazine, distributed worldwide to the 50,000 members of this organization of serious RV’ers. The office is right here at Rainbows End in a beautiful new building. It’s a wonderful job, but I’m in no mood to do it. Not having to get up in the morning and race to work is just too utterly delightful. Besides, I still need to travel, and editing that magazine would keep me planted right here in rustic southeastern Texas. Nah, I don’t want to do it. Willie thinks it would be fine to stay here and have that extra paycheck. Sure, he gets to play with his cronies.

… a non-gun totin’ Winter-Texan driver ...

We are now officially Texas residents, y’all! That’s frightening.

When we went to get our driver’s licenses at the county penal institution (complete with the high fence with barbed wire at the top), we were notified that we couldn’t take our concealed weapons into the jail. In order to become Texas drivers, we just had to complete forms and take eye tests — without our glasses. Now, neither of us can see those little letters on the test without wearing glasses. But that wasn’t a problem for them.

While we squinted, a tall female Texas Ranger-type officer, packing a 9mm automatic with lots of extra ammo, walked in and said, Well, a lot of you winter Texans are decidin’ to come on down here and live with us.

Yes, but you regular Texans drive by the Braille method, and that sure makes our insurance rates go up, Willie replied.

No, the officer said, the rates are so high because you Winter Texans drive so slow we have to hit you.

We didn’t pursue the conversation, but now we are licensed to drive blind, faster than a bat out of hell, carrying concealed weapons.

... and Christmas before we go

It looks and smells like Christmas here in the motor home — with poinsettias in the living room (that tiny fake tree was just too tacky) and a wonderful cinnamon-scented candle burning. I gave the naughty oven another trial run with a batch of pecan rolls today, and the good smell of yeast and hot caramel still lingers. On Christmas morning, Willie and I will play bakery elves and make pecan rolls to deliver, warm from the oven, to some of our favorite people here. We used to do that when we lived in Minnesota.

We’ve decided to worship with the folks at the care center here on Christmas Eve, primarily because that service is at five o’clock and will allow us to attend a party at seven. Wouldn’t want to miss a party! Christmas day, Willie and I are hosts at one of the tables at the big dinner gathering. Made the wine run today, but we will drink our wine from crash-proof glasses.

We’re itchin’ to get back on the road. Our attorney is out of town, so we can’t finish up our end-of-life documents until January 6. We’re thinking that we may batten down the loose objects, hitch up the tow car and move on down to Galveston right after Christmas, then drive the car back to see the attorney. After that it is Westward Ho!

After the Rainbow

April 17, 1998 - Cloud 9 Ranch, Missouri

(Here) you can buy everything from wild animal traps and farm supplies to sewing notions, lunch meat and a whole arsenal of semi-automatic weapons. …

From Foggy Hollow to hard times on Cloud 9

We’re adding this place to our list of worthwhile destinations. Much of the fun was in the getting here. Good thing there wasn’t a north wind or a south wind as we made our way over the ups and downs and twists and turns of our easterly journey on U.S. 160. We’d have been blown off a cliff. Each new vista outdid the one before it. Forests were rife with dogwood and redbud, meadows lush and green, lakes and streams bright turquoise. A 90-mile, four-hour Ozark mountain high!

And then comes Cloud 9 Ranch. Yes, it’s off the beaten path — this members-only campground sprawled across 10 square miles (more than 6,000 acres) of Ozark mountains and forests. There are 600 full-hookup campsites here, but you’d never know it. They’re tucked into little communities with names like Foggy Hollow, Powder Mill, Wilder Springs, Lonesome Pine, and Hill Country.

After turning from the highway and going through the main gate, we drove nearly three miles through the woods to the gate house. A short way beyond we found a surprisingly civilized community compound — supermarket, restaurant, welcome center, adult recreation building, swimming pool, tennis courts, pavilion, another swimming pool, and a chapel. Down a fork in the road is a riding stable. Roads branch out in various directions to the several campgrounds. The craft house is up near Wilder Spring in an old farmhouse. This place is paradise for walkers. A flock of birds that look to us like wild canaries (little bitty yellow buggers) has taken over the hillside by our campsite. This must be a stop on their spring migration route.

Only a few campers are here now, many of them with all-terrain vehicles. Well, isn’t that lovely? Designated trails abound for them to play on. Luckily the area is so vast, the ATVs disappear into the woods, and we never hear them. Speak of the devil! A little gray-haired man and a little gray-haired woman are driving by on their ATV right now. She has her hair carefully glued into curls. Ma

and Pa are driving very s-l-o-w-l-y. But do you suppose we’ve stumbled into a militia compound? Everyone but us is wearing camouflage fatigues.

This place opened back in 1972, I suspect with the sale of high-priced memberships. It’s fallen on hard times and is undergoing financial reorganization now. I think it has filed for bankruptcy. The managers have contracted to log off about $300,000 worth of hardwood lumber this year to help keep the place going, and they’ve cut way back on staffing. There used to be 87 employees. Sure hope they manage to keep the place afloat. I’d like to come back again.

Storms, whimpering worshipers and Punkin Center men

Our CB radio is a handy item here. The campground uses CB channel 12 to issue take cover warnings during tornado alerts. We had the darn thing on during our first two nights here (waiting for orders to hole up in the chapel basement) while nasty storm fronts moved over us. Tonight, thank God, it is calm, but last night, thunder crashed and the rain poured and the weather service issued severe weather warnings for this county. I got out my art supplies and turned out three things good enough to save (and six duds) before the violent weather — and my terror — subsided and it was safe to go to bed. In the midst of artistic frenzy, I smeared black ink on the carpet-and-wood floor. You don’t want to know what a trial it was to get rid of that stuff.

We worshiped with an ELCA congregation on Easter. Like many small Lutheran congregations, this one didn’t sing; it whimpered. We whined feebly through the liturgy, and our voices grew ever more tentative and pathetic with each hymn. Kinda jolting after a number of Sundays with lusty Methodists and Baptists. The interim pastor mechanically read his sermon. Poor little flock! You should have seen us chanting the Psalms; it’s never been done like that before. At least I hope it hasn’t. Next Sunday, it won’t seem too bad to resume non-denominational worship with a campground community.

A couple days ago, we went to the general store in the tiny town of Caulfield to get a