I’ve always liked the Bon Marche. It could be because of the bargain basement at the Tacoma Mall store, but I think the real reason is because that is the first credit card I ever got to use. Of course I didn’t use it at the store and it wasn’t my card.
One year my family planned a trip to Disneyland over Christmas break. On the way, we would stop in Fallon, Nevada to visit my Grandma Mary’s brothers, Tom and Carry.
In order to share the driving and spend time together and last, but not least, save some money, we would all be riding and staying together and my grandparent’s 25 foot 1970’s era RV.
The RV uncomfortably slept six if you pressed the upper cupboard over the dining table into a bunk. To be fair, the cupboard was hinged on the front so that it could fold down into a bunk.
To get into the cupboard bunk, one of us kids would springboard from the bed, that had once been the dining table, like we were trying to mount the high bar in gymnastics. The goal was to delicately land one foot right beside the stove, but not on the burner, while grabbing the edge of the cupboard / bed. Then you would vault the rest of the way up into the bed landing exactly how you planned to lay for the rest of the night since there really was not enough room to roll over without giving yourself a concussion against the ceiling.
Hopefully you could pull this off in one smooth, graceful motion. Otherwise, Grandma, trying to be helpful I’m sure, would give you a good goosing on you way up just to add some extra motivation and momentum.
There were, of course, seven of us going.
To wedge the last person in, we devised a makeshift bed by turning the driver and passenger captain's chairs toward each other, putting a piece of plywood between them and then layering a piece of foam on top of that for added comfort just in case someone might need that kind of thing.
We all piled in and headed south.
It seemed with each mile we traveled it got colder and it started snowing sometime after we left Springfield, Oregon and headed over the mountain to the east.
After a while it was snowing so hard that the driver could barely see the road. Part of this was because of the snow. Only part. The other reason is because of the heating and defrost system in the RV. By calling the system a “defrost” system, I am being generous. While the RV did come equipped with one, the previous owner had obviously found it woefully inadequate--and rightly so. In order to augment the system, they had installed small cage fans (the size you would use on your desk at work) on each side of the windshield about three quarters of the way up the windshield post. While the fans did provide more air movement, the air that they were pushing across the windshield was tepid so the windshield was mostly fogged over.
My dad and grandpa took turns driving. Whoever was in the passenger seat had a couple of jobs. First of all, he had to periodically wipe down the windshield with a rag in an attempt to keep it clear so the driver could continue to keep us on the road. The other job was to try and see out of the passenger side window and let the the driver know if he was too close to the edge of the road.
We were not breaking any land speed records but we must have been doing OK, given the conditions, because a Greyhound bus followed us most of the the way through southern Oregon and on into eastern California. The bus seemed perfectly happy to let us break trail.
The rest of us huddled together under blankets on the couch and in the swivel chairs trying to stay warm. We also closed the privacy curtain between the front and back of the RV in an attempt to try and keep the “warm” air in the front of the RV with us.
We could see our breath as we yelled at each other in conversation. We were not mad at each other, or having an argument. We were simply trying to be heard over the sound of the RV’s in-dash fan, two desk fans and the road noise of a barely insulated RV. “Now you are in charge of that window,” Grandma said as she pointed out each of our assignments. She then reached in her purse, pulled out her wallet and handed each one of us a credit card. “When you see it get too iced up, you use the card to scrape it off.” I got the Bon Marche card.
There are some important things to know about scraping the ice off of the inside of a vehicle window. First of all you don’t want the ice to get so thick that your Bon Marche card isn’t effective. Secondly, you don’t want to get out of the blanket bundle so often that you let all of the warm air out. After a few times of making each mistake, you get the hang of it.
When the sheen on the window is just right, you rocket out of the blanket, while trying to keep it tented to still trap in any warm air generated by your body heat, lunge to the window, pull your card from your pocket (You have to keep your card warm. A warm card works much better than a cold piece of plastic. Also, you would not want to misplace Grandma’s Bon card, well none of them actually, but especially the Bon card. It was one of her favorites. Front pants pocket storage seems to be best for resolving both of these issues.) and scrape like crazy. You have to use proper scraping technique so that the small curls of ice that climb up the back of your Bon card don’t roll right into your gloves.
We had several hundred miles to perfect this technique and by the time we reached Fallon, the whole RV had pretty much become a block of ice.
I can still picture Grandma standing over the RV toilet with the broom handle shoved down the hole. She was jabbing and stirring the frozen contents within as if it the toilet was some strange witches cauldron and she was making a brew.
I remember swaying down the road all huddled together for warmth. I remember scraping ice off of the inside of the windows. I remember trying to keep the oranges warm with my feet (that’s a story for another time).
You know what I don’t remember very clearly? The Disneyland part of the trip.
Sometimes spending time together with the family on an adventure creates memories that last for years. These adventures generate stories your family will tell each other for a lifetime. “Remember the time when….” The stories themselves become iconic and immortalized in the family history, not because of the money spent or glamorous location, but because of your experience together.
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