I went diving through old columns this morning and realized that though 19 years have passed, this subject is truer than ever. Do you agree with me?
Subtitle: Been There, Done That, but Cannot Remember It
For those of you who might read this who are not advanced RVers, Giganticus CRSicus is the scientific term for a formidable case of CRS, a.k.a., Can’t Remember Sugar. It is of epidemic proportions and highly contagious, but unfortunately, not too communicable in terms of making someone understand.
For instance, if six RVers are standing in one spot, four are being thoughtful, trying not to notice the lapse in conversation. The speaker is embarrassed beyond words, desperately searching his (or her) mental compartments for the right word to supply the punch line to a hilarious joke, which by this time is totally irrelevant to the conversation. Number six is confusing the speaker even more by supplying one hundred possible endings, words, or phrases in ten seconds or less.
In a community of peers, this CRS is understood and easily forgiven, but not if you are in a group of people younger than thirty-five who are relatives, namely children, who just happen to be your offspring. They do not, I repeat, do not, understand why you cannot remember their Social Security numbers, kindergarten teachers, whether or not they have a belly button big enough to harbor Cincinnati or which sister is which. God forbid you should mix one of them up with a sibling.
Just this last year I was talking on the phone to my youngest daughter. As I usually do, I call my girls on their birthdays (during prime time to prove how much I really love them). “Hi Mom!” she said eagerly, delighted to hear my voice so early in the morning. I sang happy birthday to her and said with great joy, “This is almost exactly the moment you were born, Sweetheart.” It was truly phenomenal how quickly long jagged icicles froze my ear to the phone. Simultaneously, as the warmth drained from the lines, I went from “Mom” to “Mother!”
“I thought I was born at night, Mother!” When you transform from Mom to Mother, they talk in exclamation points. “My darling daughter, once that precious baby is in your arms, you don’t care what time it is.” “Quick recovery, Mother!”
Our memories are getting so bad that campgrounds are putting up not so discreet signs at the end of the driveway, “Antenna down? Step up? Wife aboard?” How often have you returned to get an item you know you put there five minutes before, only to find it gone? The minehunes hide items under flat-looking newspapers, behind salt shakers, or if the lost item is a pair of glasses, on your forehead.
Now that I’ve come to the end of this column, I should probably just say goodbye but I have forgotten, exactly what were we talking about? God Bless.
Winter in the Wilderness, Minshall’s first novel (e-book & hard cover), and the fourth edition of RVing Alaska and Canada are available through Amazon.com. I hope you’ll follow my RV Life column, Silver, Single and Solo on www.RVLife.com.
At 45, Widow Minshall began 20 years of solo full-time RVing throughout Alaska, Mexico, and Canada. Sharlene canoed the Yukon, mushed sled dogs, worked a dude ranch, visited Hudson Bay polar bears, and lived six months on a Mexican beach. She lectured at Life on Wheels, published six RV-related books and wrote a novel, “Winter in the Wilderness.”
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