All right, maybe I’m not Cousin Eddie.  After all, my dog, “Lady,” is much prettier than “Snot,” and she doesn’t chase squirrels.  In fact, she saw a squirrel near a tree two weeks ago in Melbourne and ran for her little Sheltie life.  Pookah, the Chihuahua, launched a vicious attack on the poor squirrel, which left me in the middle, holding the leases of two dogs who were straining to run in opposite directions.
    But since we started traveling to cat shows in my new camper, I certainly FEEL like Cousin Eddie.  When it was new, our camper was a $34,000 dream machine—but that was in 1987, two years before Freddy was born.  By the time ownership of the camper was turned over to us, the engine was covered with greasy oil on every leaky gasket, the exterior had faded to a dull beige with gnarled decals and a door held together with Velcro (Actually, Velcro strips hold everything together, including the door to the lavatory).  Only one headlight worked, the generator belched black smoke everywhere, and there were two travel decals on the back of the camper, which indicated that its owners were supporters of the French.
    All these things contributed to making me feel like Cousin Eddie, especially when it always takes three tries to get the engine started, but the thing that really “put the icing on the cake” (to use a terribly inappropriate metaphor), was that most of the tanks were already full—the car was sold with a full tank of gas, a full tank of propane, a full tank of water, and a full tank of shit.  Yes, that’s right.  The first thing I got to do when I brought the camper home was to stand by the tank draining brown water into our sewage pipe and say to the world which went by, the younger jogging, the older walking, with a smile,  “Shitter’s full.”
    Two weeks ago, we attended a cat show in Melbourne.  The three hour drive took about four and a half hours, but the camper drove well, with no major problems.  Of course, the generator decided not to start, so we had to park the camper under a shade tree and leave some windows half open and the fan running so the animals would be okay.  In addition to the two dogs, there was Freddy’s new kitten, a black Selkirk Rex named Gidget, who managed to find a thousand places in the car to hide, so I would think she had somehow gotten out the door and Freddy would hate me forever for letting his cat get away.
    We couldn’t open the windows too wide, because in our previous recreational vehicle, a travel trailer, Lady ate a screen and two sets of aluminum blinds.  Pooka, on the other hand, loves to sit in the sun, so while the animals were all perfectly comfortable in the fully insulated camper, he chose to sit on the dashboard and pant, causing people to complain to the police about the poor overheated doggy in the window.   Apparently the fact that I was in the camper with the animals, turning on the air conditioner in the afternoon if they seemed the slightest bit warm, was irrelevant.  The police officer said I should take the animals out of the cool, ventilated, insulated shady camper and tie them up in the hot sun where they could cower from  heat under the car, instead.
    I ended up putting them all on leashes and walking them around the lake, which was where we met the squirrels.  At night, because our little Kitty Kat Collectibles business (changed from Kitty Kat Kollectibles because we didn’t want to be associated with the same initials as the Ku Klux Klan) hadn’t made much money, we slept at the local Wal-Mart and were actually quite cozy.
    (Wal-Mart does travelers a great service by allowing them to use their parking lots for overnight camping.  It never seemed fair to me that campgounds should charge campers who just stop to sleep the same price as those who spend a full day at a campgound using the pool and the shuffleboard courts and the other activities.  With prices at some campgrounds now approaching $40 a night, Wal-Mart’s policy allows people to spend more money at their chosen campground, rather than on the drive to it.)
    But too often, people expect to find Cousin Eddie staying at a Wal-Mart, watching “The Jerry Springer Show” on his portable television, sipping beer, and fondling his teenaged stepdaughter.  It’s just not a flattering image.

    It seemed like the generator problem was in the printed circuit card that controlled it.  I priced one at $252.79.  That left us with another dilemma.  What if it WASN’T the card?  I would have spent all that money for nothing and not be able to return the card.  We decided to let the guy at the trailer place check out the whole system so we’d be safe.
    He charged us $385 to replace the card.
    But okay, we assumed.  Now everything is running well and we don’t have to worry about a thing.  We left for the Atlanta Cat Show in high spirits on Friday morning, listening to a Dean Koontz audio book and several of our favorite radio shows, including “Dragnet,” “The Life of Riley,” and Diane’s favorite, “Father Knows Best.”
    We reached Atlanta as Rush Hour was beginning.  Have you any idea how difficult it is to change lanes in traffic driving a twenty-six foot camper when your only views are from side mirrors, one of which is repeatedly blocked by Diane’s hair?  And, as I75 branched into I85, we managed to get over three lanes to the right where the exit sign said, “I85 keep left,” and had to go back across five lanes to get to route 85.
    I was as frazzled as Desi Arnaz in THE LONG LONG TRAILER.
    Eventually, we found the school, after passing it several times, and spent Friday evening unloading and getting up shop.  We finished about 7:00, when it started to hail, giant hailstones nearly as big as golfballs.  After running to the car, the hail painfully striking my back and shoulders, I asked Diane how to get to the Wal-Mart where we had planned to stay that night.  Diane then explained to me that she hadn’t located a Wal-Mart, that the nearest one in Atlanta was about thirty miles away, on the other side of the city.
    I very patiently explained to her that we were in a suburb of Atlanta, and that she should look for Wal-Marts listed under the surrounding suburbs.  We learned there was one in the neighboring town of Decateur on Wesley Chapel road.  All we had to do was follow North Druid Road across route 85 and make a right on route 23.
    But route 23 was nowhere to be found.  We covered the same road, back and forth, three times, in the dark, on those narrow Atlanta roads, which have absolutely no shoulders, but couldn’t find the road we needed.  Finally, we turned south where we thought route 23 SHOULD be and it was there, all right, at 8:30.  The road was labeled, but nowhere did we ever see a sign telling us where to turn for route 23.
    But, naturally, we couldn’t find the Wal-Mart.  We asked several people where it was, where the street was, and nobody could point us in the right direction.  It was almost 9:00, when I decided we should get dinner at Publix before it closed, then go back to the school and spend the night in the parking lot across the street.  We turned on the generator, went shopping, and had sloppy Joes in the Publix parking lot.
    On the way back to the school, we lost our way in the dark, went past the school twice, got more and more angry on those dark, narrow, shoulderless roads when BAM!  My right mirror smashed into a tree or something on the side of the road and shattered all over the side of the car.  I was now driving blind on the right hand side, impossible to move into a right hand lane, so we made several left turns, found an all night food store named Krogers where I bought two little inch and half mirrors that I could stick on the mirror case.  They were useless at night.
    We then made several turns, off and on major roads, and, miraculously ended up at the school, where we finally went to sleep, after watching Jerry Springer in “Ringmaster.”  When morning came, we had breakfast, and Diane started her work at the cat show.  I remained in the camper, working on a few odd jobs, like putting back the dashboard where the broken speedometer had been traced, and where Freddy had I had just replaced the temperature gauge.
    The generator stopped.  I tried to restart it, but the generator battery was dead, so I started the engine and let the alternator put enough juice into the generator battery so I could restart it.  Once it had started, I hooked up my battery charger to the generator battery.  After about half an hour, it died, anyway.  When I tried to start the engine, I saw that the alternator was no longer charging.  This was Saturday—I had to find an auto repair place on a weekend.
    Fortunately, I came across Atlanta Car Care on Buford Highway, about two miles from the school.  While Diane stayed at the cat show, Freddy and I stayed with John, the owner of the repair place, until about 5:00.  He replaced the alternator at a cost of $275, but was confused with all the extra wiring for the camper and a device called an isolater which separates the two batteries, so we never did get the alternator to charge the battery.
    When I drove back to the school that night, a few people were waiting with Diane because they didn’t think it was safe enough for her to wait alone there.  Then the coach at the school, a real gentleman, was kind enough to allow us to park overnight in the school driveway, and even connected an extension cord to the school box office for us, so we could have electricity and keep Diane’s food from spoiling in the now dead refrigerator.
    When we hooked up to the school that night, Freddy said, perhaps thinking of that Jerry Springer movie he had just seen, “Daddy, NOW I REALLY feel like trailer trash.”  As I looked at Diane, unhappy because I had forgotten to bring along our small-gauge shotgun for protection, I had to agree with him.
    As we slept that night, I charged up both batteries so we’d be able to start the car and the generator in the morning.

    When morning came, I met the other coach at the school, an equally kind gentleman, who not only allowed me to stay, but also gave me directions to Pep Boys, who were open on Sunday.  Freddy and I drive to their shop.  One of the Pep Boys looked at my car, and said, “Have you checked the alternator fuse?”  Freddy and I looked under the dash, but could find nothing labeled “alternator fuse.”
    “Well, there’s nothing we can do for you,” said the Pep Boy.  We can’t get campers into our shop.”
    He was kind enough to give me the phone number of a place down the highway that specialized in automobile electrical systems, but they wouldn’t be open until Monday.
    I didn’t know what to do.  I was afraid to drive home without the alternator working—that meant no headlights after the battery died, and we were liable to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, subsisting only on Georgia pecans and peaches until a rescue team found us.
    We got back to the school, and I parked in the lot on the side of the school, so we wouldn’t be completely embarassed when the customers came to the show.  The battery was fully charged, so the generator worked.  Freddy and I ran the generator and worked on the car a little.  I hooked up my battery charger to the electric system, so that the generator would charge up its battery, thus running indefinitely.
    In the meantime, I busied myself repairing my mirror with some stuff I had purchased at Pep Boys.  I bought a mirror for $10, and then fit it into my mirror frame, which had to be modified to hold it.  I cut a slit in the back to secure the pin on the back of the mirror and had to cut about an inch out of the twelve plastic rays which supported the back of the mirror.  By the time I had finished, I was pretty proud of myself.  You could hardly tell it was a jury-rigged job.
    Then the generator died.  My charging idea didn’t work and we were back to ground zero.  I told the coach that we had to back in the driveway again and connect to the electricity so keep the dogs and cat from dying in the heat.  And there we sat until Monday morning.  Even the twenty bucks I donated to the high school to pay for the electricity I used didn’t make me feel any less like Cousin Eddie, sitting there in a fifteen year old camper, its age clearly delineated by its ugly beige color, while the wealthy cat club owners of Atlanta walked by.
    With the help of my friend, Gary, on the telephone, I checked and rechecked all the wiring I could.  I tried to by pass the isolator, so the alternator would at least charge the truck battery to enable us to drive home.  Everything seemed to be good except the new alternator.  Rather than risk driving home, Diane took Monday off and we returned to John at Atlanta Car Care to check the alternator.  He agreed that it seemed to be simply a bad alternator, so he ordered and installed a new one, this time completely bench checked before installation.
    We got to John’s at seven AM.  By eleven, the new alternator was installed and IT DIDN’T WORK!     We called the electrical place Pep Boys had suggested and made an appointment to drive 12 miles north to that place.  After twenty minutes, the electrical guy told us we had blown the gauge fuse.
    THE GAUGE FUSE?  Oh yes.  There is no alternator fuse in this car.  Instead, the alternator output is triggered by the gauge fuse.  He replaced it, gave me several extras, charged me $24.00 and we were on our way home, just missing an Earthquake which measured 4.5 on the Richter Scale.

    As soon as we got home, we took the camper to the RV place where Sam told us the converter wasn’t charging the battery properly and replaced the lower electrical gizmo for $300.  Everything checked out, good as new, so on Thursday night, we headed to Atlanta again for the CFA cat show to be held at the Ramada Inn, about four miles south of the first cat show.
    Diane had me take exit 351 to a Wal-Mart so we could spend the night and finish the trip on Friday.  I followed her directions for about 45 minutes, searching for that Wal-Mart, which turned out to be half a mile from exit 352.  We turned on the generator, drank a glass of wine, and watched television.
    The next day, bright and early, we headed north.  Shortly after we crossed the border, I felt a shuddering in the car followed by BANG FLICK FLICK CRASH.  The inside right tire had lost its tread, just like all those bits of tires you see on the highway.  Fortunately, we were only about half a mile from an exit.  We found a gas station and were told there was a tire place just about a mile away.
    We slowly limped to the tire place, where we were told that he couldn’t replace 6.5 inch tires.  He sent us to another place, about another mile around the corner.  A very nice fellow was at the shop.  He told me I should buy new rims when I get home because nobody carries 6.5 inch tires anymore.  He did manage to locate a used one in another shop, about a mile and a half away, and sent me there, where they replaced the tire for $40.00.
    That afternoon, we found the Ramada Inn and set up the Cat stuff, while the dogs and cat stayed in the camper with the generator running and the air conditioner on.  About three hours later, the generator died, the gauge fuse blew again, and gas was leaking out of the engine.  I did what I could, used up four gauge fuses, and finally disconnected the camper battery so the engine would at least charge.  We had a candlelight diner that night.
    The next morning, the tiny gas leak under the engine had increased and gasoline was pouring out, all over the street, and all over me, who had to get under the damned thing to try to stop the leak.  It was hopeless.
    Atlanta Car Care was only a few miles up the road.  I drove up to John, who told me to bring the van around the back, where the camper would fit in the large doors so he could examine it from the pit.  “Are you sure I can fit?” I asked.  “I’ll guide you in,” said John.  Slowly, I moved forward, carefully watching my mirrors so they wouldn’t break again.  Then CRUUUNCHHHH!  John had forgotten the air conditioner on the roof.  I slammed on the breaks and raced up the ladder to the roof, where I saw the air conditioner was okay—but the plastic casing was shattered.  John gave me some duck tape, so I could tape it all up for the trip home, making the camper look even more like Cousin Eddie’s.  Freddy started singing that Adam Sandler song in his Mexican accent: “The car I’m driving is a shit car.”
    How I miss my beloved van and our beautiful trailer.  How I pray that my principal who caused this mess will rot in hell for eternity, with Roy Cohn and Richard Nixon.
    Well, John said we needed a new fuel pump.  When the part arrived, it turned out AGAIN to be the right number, wrong part, so we had to wait another two hours while another part was ordered.  Freddy and I had a good time walking the dogs and watching SIGNS on the laptop.  After the fuel pump was installed, I had John check out underneath the engine for anything else that might be leaking or dripping.  He said it looked okay.  There was a bit of transmission fluid on the pan, but that’s to be expected and no problem.
    Then, we checked the air on the tires.  John said that 65 psi was the maximum, and my tires should be inflated to about 50 psi.  (I had put everything to 65; it was probably my fault the tire had blown.)  We said our farewells and we were off again.
    So far, since we bought this camper for $6500, we’ve paid $700 to the RV place for generator work, and $500 to John for a new alternator and a fuel pump.  To that, we can add a hundred for the tire and the electrical guy, and another hundred for various small parts and sundries. To that, we can add the fact that we’ve averaging seven miles to the gallon, and we burn a quart of oil every 500 miles.
    The money we grossed at the cat shows in Atlanta paid for the gas.  That was gross, though, not profit.  Profit?  What is profit?

    On the way home, yesterday, I got a new idea.  Maybe the generator problem is in the battery itself.  I put in a different one, had it charge all night, and started it this morning.  So far, it’s been running for two hours.  Will it work?  Who knows?  Ever since the times of Pandora, we still have HOPE.
 CHAPTER TWO