USA: Finally, the final farewell

So long, and thanks for all the fish

Before we begin, I promise you four things:

• I will tell you a few stories to show what I am thankful for.

• I will provide a Walter update.

• I will tell you about our most unusual farewell party.

• I won’t get political.

Read on.

If you read last week’s risky post, friends, you know it’s been a wild week. Uncertainty still looms over us on so many levels, but the times, they are a-changin’, and we need to move on¹—both literally and emotionally.

We’re not exactly ready, but it’s time to blow this popsicle stand and return to our life as traveling nomads. But before we leave our hometown, nestled into a hollow in the Rocky Mountains, allow me to express my gratitude:

Thank you, little Stevensville, Montana. Thank you for twenty years of living here. Thank you for fifty years of memories. Thank you for hosting us one final time, as we’ve made a weird little life in a cramped storage unit behind Subway, across from the Super 1 grocery store. I will leave with fond memories, yes, even of this fairly unpleasant month.

Thank you, woman at The Sour Doe Bakery.

I pushed open the creaky wooden screen door and stepped into the homey lobby to buy two cookies to take “home” for my husband and me on a day we were struggling with sadness. I stood a few steps behind you, breathing in the aroma of those legendary cheddar biscuits and admiring the local handmade soaps and lotions. You completed your purchase, exchanged pleasantries with the cashier, and headed for the door with your brown paper sack of goodies. But before you could cross the threshold into the crisp, blue-sky autumn afternoon, you overheard me inquire about cookies, since the wheeled baking racks behind the front counter held none. You knew you had purchased the last of them. You spun around, fumbled with your bag, and sweetly offered to give me one of yours. You didn’t know me, and I was not in any way entitled to your rightful stash (Sour Doe cookies are like gold!), but you didn’t want me to go without. I declined your offer, but your kindness—on a day I truly needed it—touched me deeply.

Thank you, fellow shopper scanning for the shortest checkout line at Super 1.

We both veered toward the express lane with our small baskets at the same moment. You were closer, but you waved me ahead when you noted that I only had two items, and you had six or seven. I looked you in the eye and thanked you for that unnecessary kindness. You shrugged, smiled, and said it was no big deal. When I was handed my receipt, I paused and turned back to you, again looking you in the eye. “It was only a small thing,” I stated, “but this world needs some extra kindness right now, so I thank you.” You paused, sighed, and said you understood what I meant. Then you spontaneously reached for me with both arms. We hugged, two strangers in the express lane of the grocery store.

Thank you, baristas at Trapper Peak Coffee.

You prepare my Jasmine tea as soon as you see me walk in the door now, knowing full-well that I will likely stay most of the day, typing away on my laptop at the long counter along one wall. You smile and chat with me as if we are old friends. You make me feel like a barfly at Cheers—where everybody knows my name and is always glad I came. In a world that seems so divided and harsh right now, it helps so much. And thanks especially, Barista Shalyn, for taking off your apron and speed walking through the neighborhood with me that one day. Jumping in the big piles of leaves and giggling as we picked them off each other made me feel like a carefree kid again.

Thank you, fellow tenants at the storage unit (as well as volunteer firefighters at the station across the parking lot, and the patrons and staff at the athletic center next door).

You have probably had your suspicions that we are living in that little space in Walter, our hard-to-miss big yellow truck, but you have remained silent. You have not stared or questioned or quietly reported us. Because of your discretion, we have been sheltered—safe and somewhat warm—this past month. We are so grateful.

Thank you, sandwich artists at Subway.

You have asked zero questions about why we walk past your business, down the hallway you share with the church that meets in the old pizza shop next door, to the public restroom around the corner. We only bought a few sandwiches over the course of this month, but I visited that restroom almost daily. I don’t know if it’s you or the church who put the cleaning supplies in each stall, but I promise I have used them on multiple occasions.

Thank you, Anytime Fitness staff and patrons.

You don’t ask questions when Andy and I come in at odd hours—often not even for a workout, but just for a shower. Thank you for just minding your own business, never making us feel less-than or unwanted.

Thank you, staff at the three local hardware stores in this town and the next.

I can feel that you are cheering for us and are always anxious to help with whatever we need—even allowing us to freely fill our freshwater tanks from the spigot in your back lot. It’s almost like you feel a certain amount of ownership of our truck and journey, which makes sense with you playing such a big role since we first began the build three years ago. And thanks for never protesting when I took an extra bag of popcorn to take “home” to Andy.

Thank you, city council, Civic Club, and whoever else is responsible for the walking path.

That lovely 2-kilometer (1.2 mile) sidewalk between Hwy 93 and downtown has been a lifeline for me, as Andy works on Walter in the storage unit, and I need to run errands or hole up in a peaceful place to write. The scenery is spectacular either direction; the cows and deer and herons are fun to watch; the tippy little wooden bridge over the slough is creaky and fun (and I saw a big muskrat from up there this week!); and overall, I have just really enjoyed the chance to walk it so often.

This is the path I have walked to and from town several times per week since we’ve been living in the storage unit this past month.

On the same walking theme, thank you, residents of the neighborhoods east of Main Street, all the way back to the railroad tracks and beyond. I suppose I have become a bit of a fixture as you look out your windows and drive to and from your home this month—there’s that lady again, always walking, walking, walking. Your houses and yards are lovely, and you’ve nearly always waved as we pass one another.

Thank you, friendly horse in the pasture off 2nd Street, just west of the railroad tracks.

You know which one you are—the big bay with the black tips and the white blaze, not your pasture-mate, the chestnut who is so aloof. I’m sorry I don’t know your name, but you always perk up when I come by, and you trot over to the fence to chat whenever I pause. We’ve had some good talks, haven’t we? Thank you for letting me warm my cold hands on your neck that one morning. And thank you for not nibbling too hard on my sleeve.

Thank you, manager of the laundromat.

You frowned and furrowed your brows and were genuinely sad to see me, week after week, as our time here dragged on. I know you meant it in the best possible way—that our presence meant we still had no solutions to our truck problems. And thank you for allowing me to hang my merino wool and other non-machine-dryables on the carts in the back of the laundromat. When you understood I was on foot and didn’t wish to lug all the clean laundry to the coffeeshop with me, you didn’t even blink at my request to leave my laundry—both the dry and the undry—there for the whole afternoon.

Thank you, local friends, old and new.

You have lent your mailing address for our packages. You have hosted us for a hot meal, a place to park, a night’s stay. You have loaned us your tools, your muscles, your expertise. You have helped us with our projects, let us borrow your cars, shared stories with us at the brewery, let us soak in your spa and swelter in your sauna. You have enthusiastically cheered us through the rough patches of this build—particularly this crazy past month.

We have so much here to appreciate.

But it’s time to go.

Those are my mountains. I will miss them.

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About Walter’s Future

Walter still has issues.

The battery situation is not solved. We finally secured a combination of diagnostic tools that could find the overcharged cells and release the excess energy from them. Unfortunately, it has proven to be a much slower process than we could have ever anticipated. We had expected Stage 1 of the procedure to take a few days of ‘round-the-clock monitoring, and then we could move on to Stages 2 & 3, finishing up long before our one-month storage unit rental ran out. But no. At the rate Stage 1 has progressed so far, the math paints a much more dismal picture. If we continue with the process as it is now, Stage 1 alone will take 38 days.

38 days. ‘Round-the-clock.

Nope.

We need a different solution and are actively working on it.

The heating solution we thought we had has not panned out, either. A local professional, a new friend we met in the parking lot of the hardware store, helped us secure the coolant we needed for the mini-split and worked with Andy at all the technical stuff I don’t understand. Unfortunately, after a couple hours of working on it together, the mini-split only worked properly-ish for less than half an hour. Something is still definitely wrong with it, and we will have to figure it out at a later date. We haven’t even started work yet on the diesel heater—the primary source of our below-freezing heat.

The solar panels on the Snuggery’s roof can still process plenty of energy from the sun, and our alternator produces power when the engine is running, but without functional batteries, we can’t store any of the power. The good news is the refrigerator stays cold while the engine is running, so we don’t lose our fresh food while we are driving. But once the engine stops, we must plug in if we want to have refrigeration, lights, heat, a fan to vent our composting toilet, a pump to get running water, or a way to cook our meals.

Our carefree days of boondocking off-grid are behind us for now, at least until we can resolve the battery issues.

We have been able to accomplish many other little projects, though, since we’ve been here in the storage unit. I started to list them all, but there are way too many. Most are just things we’d planned all along but hadn’t had time to finish yet.

One change that happened this month, however, was unplanned. We decided to abandon Roo, our red motorbike that is adorable and fun but has caused me a bit of stress, along with the enormous, complicated, well-engineered and fabricated system that held it in place and lifted it up and down. It hasn’t been as necessary as we thought it would be, and it bounced around too much—plus, we are still looking for ways to cut weight. So, bye-bye, Roo. We are leaving her and our helmets with local friends to enjoy. It will likely be about a year before we could get back to this area; if we find we have missed her and want her back, we can pick her up again then and figure out a new way to mount her to the truck.

We’ve accomplished a lot in the last month, even though the days have dragged at times as we’ve been holed up in this small, dark cave.

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An unexpected farewell party

After attending our final local church service Sunday, we went out to eat with a lively group of five young adults. Two of them were our own child and her partner (both of whom we adore). Three of them were new friends, at least for us. All of them are either transgender or nonbinary. From all outward appearances, plain-vanilla Andy and I were the oddballs at this particular table.

The conversation bounced back and forth between light and heavy:

• the housing market

• assorted niche musical genres

• the election

• art and other creative pursuits

• revolution

• fashion

• civil war

Andy and I mostly listened. We learned a lot, to be honest.

But we are preparing to leave town Friday, heading west, saying our final goodbye to life in Montana, and we realized this peculiar brunch was as close as we would likely come to a farewell party. Fully embracing that mindset, I made a little speech, and we all raised our glasses—lemonade and iced tea, beer and mimosas. This was our banquet table. We were the odd assortment of guests compelled to come in, all of us invited from the outskirts of society, the highways and the byways. We broke bread together, as well as eggs benedict and chicken & waffles. It was holy, in its own ragamuffin way.

Because I never want to forget that day, I took several joyous photos of us all, some with big smiles and some with goofy faces. I won’t post them here out of respect for privacy and consent, but you can use your imagination. We were a colorful bunch.

I love my kids, and their friends have always been welcomed in our home and in our hearts. I’ve said it before, but I claim all the queer kids as my own now. I love them fiercely and I want to hug them all. I’m so glad when they want to hug me, too (though I am more careful now about where I position my feet for those hugs, haha).

In light of all that has happened this week, in light of all the next four years (and beyond) is anticipated to bring, could I ask you a favor?

Could you find it in your heart to go out of your way to love my kids, too? Could you offer to buy them a coffee when you see them sitting alone, or perhaps compliment their jacket when you see them out and about? Could you stand up for them if you see them being harassed, either in person or in an online forum or a matter of governmental policy? Could you invite them to sit at your table, either literally or metaphorically? You don’t have to understand everything about a person or even agree with them to be kind.

Thanks. The best way to love a parent is to love their kids. I so appreciate you loving mine.

I think it would be so helpful if we would all go out of our way to extend more-than-basic human kindnesses to everyone in the coming months and years, particularly if they are different from you in some way—how they look, what they believe, where they’re from, how they voted. We could use some extra kindness in the world right now, friends, and we of all people should initiate it, as 100% of the people we meet on a daily basis were made in the image of—and are loved by—God. I firmly believe love wins in the end.

And nothing screams belief like action.

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. We only see a few movies per year in a theater, but this week we saw the Tom Hanks film Here. It’s truly innovative in its artistry and presentation, so much so that it feels confusing for the first two minutes, but don’t worry; you’ll learn as you go. Andy and I were both blubbering and sniffling by the time the credits rolled. It didn’t do well at the box office, but we truly enjoyed it.

P.P.S. Can I ask one more favor? Would you recommend this blog to your Facebook friends or someone you think might enjoy it? Thanks.

1. If you want to talk about what happened with the election or the fallout from it, please leave those comments on last week’s post or message me privately. I’m certain we can agree to support and love each other as fellow human beings made in the image of God and deserving of basic human rights and dignity, even if we disagree on the results of the vote.