A few weeks ago, I spent 5 hours straight studying every manner of vintage camper to modern teardrop. I eventually forced myself to shut my computer off at 2 AM.
Hooked to my SUV, we could spend a day at a nearby park and look at other people's downed trees and not care!
Caveat being that if I bought a camper, then I could no longer afford to go anywhere!
Still, I pined for a Serro Scotty early 70's camper.
Decently renovated campers of that era start at $4000. Can't really get anything cheaper unless you get a micro teardrop camper that wouldn't even fit me and the dogs.
This is the interior of a 1965 Scotty with original propane lighting.
No need to park at an electrical site with a gas stove.
Some vintage Scottys are extremely collectible.
An evening well spent dreaming, but classified under "plans for when I retire or win the lotto".
Fast forward to Sunday.
My quirky neighbor, Scrappy, texts to ask if I had an old pipe he could use to drain water away from his driveway. Matter of fact, I have a set of scrap metal pipes that have been bothering me for months. I'll bring them right over.
Let it be known that the snakes are officially out of dormancy.
Unfortunate rat snake had made a home in the pipe and is confused upon eviction.
Poor munchkin tries to hide around the axle of the trailer.
Takes some negotiating to get him to go somewhere safer. I felt so guilty for making him homeless before nightfall, I try to herd him to a fallen tree, but he is an unwilling sheep.
Scrappy is the only name by which I know my neighbor who lives on the hill opposite my house. His property is consortium of scrapped lawn furniture, truck parts, unrecognizable debris, storage sheds and trailers, many trailers. His mobile home, with its projecting outgrowths of slapped on rooms has an organic, amoeba-like quality about it. He joked once before a bad storm that a tornado hitting his place would be an improvement.
My deep aversion to junk and piles 'o' crap had made me reticent about getting to know ole Scrappy the first year I was here. Then, he sorta grew on me. He's a stay at home dad to a severely handicapped 40 year old son. He's fiercely blunt, fond of drink, a natural comedian, quick on the wit in his texts... a big white Fred Sandford.
He even called me "Dummy" last year, so I guess that means he likes me too.
For the first time, I notice this in his yard:
Can it be???
My pulse quickens, I'm yelling at Scrappy "Is that a Scotty, is it a Scotty?" . By now he's standing beside me when he yells in my ear that it's his POS tool shed.
IT IS AN EARLY 70'S SCOTTY.
Not in the greatest condition, worse than poor, a mound of decrepitude.
I must have it.
--"But, Baby it's my shed."
--"Fine, I'll build you a new shed."
--"When can you start?"
And the deal is done. I'm sure I can find a tire and rim somewhere on his place to slap on the trailer to make the 400 yard trek to my carport.
And now I have even more reason to learn how to weld.
18 months from now, I should have a road worthy glamper, or not. Who knows unless you try!
