As my dually is at the body shop, Flynn takes his lunch break to bring the farm truck for the job.
Scrappy says if we take it easy, we should make it down his bumpy driveway without it breaking apart... yes, the rear wall is that rotted. Tends to happen when a broken out window is facing the prevailing winds for eons.
Flynn drives, I follow, making sure to pick up any discarded pieces and record snakes bailing.
No calamity going down Scrappy Lane.
Now, for the front end misaligning concrete speed bump across my entry gate.
Home free!!!
And the inspection begins. Chief Mechanic checking out frame. No major rust detected.
Before being Scrappy's tool shed, this was a hunting camp in Georgia. I'm guessing opening cupboard doors was too much of a hassle for a man cave, so they were ripped off?!? Thank goodness Scrappy is not one to toss much of anything, some of the doors and drawers are found, alas, not the full set.
Flynn's six feet make his head rub the ceiling.
He's standing in front of the entrance to the bathroom cubicle. I'm not sure how anyone who's not a gymnast is supposed to use it, but maybe there's a Youtube tutorial on that too.
The original propane dinette light still intact.
Ditto for one of the electric lights. Years of bird poop adds to the mystique.
All emblems are still attached.
Both original wheel hubs.
I'm very thankful this Scotty has received minimal renovations that could've stripped it of its authentic artifacts.
Time to roll up my sleeves and get 40 something years of crud out.
Gingerly using a stick to lift debris and insulation looking for snakes and wasps.
1980's flea infested seats hurled to the road.
Meanwhile, for his own safety, Dax is outside, fretting.
Reliably annoying, yet reassuring by his omnipresence.
Eventually all the garbage is out, everything vacuumed, walls and floors washed-- Dax can conclude his internal investigation.
The King declares this to be an acceptable second home.
Even though I'm planning a total redo form the frame up, salvaging what I can along the way, I can't stomach working up to my eyeballs in roach and mouse feces, nor am I capable of ignoring my active imagination telling me what portly hunters had done to the walls of the micro-bathroom over the years.
Tantalizing clues start popping up. Helping me pinpoint the model and age of this camper.
I use a propane torch to melt the accumulation of paint off the frame to reveal the VIN #.
Eureka! It is a 1974, 15 footer, Serro Scotty Sportsman with Gaucho interior. Manufactured on Oklahoma and originally sold in Kansas.
The camper is officially 3 years younger than myself. Which makes me feel that this old gal's exterior (even if I'm planning to peel walls) need A Spa Day.
My hands are still burning from all the scrubbing with bleach water, but worth it.
I detect she's on her third paint job: original being the standard white and aqua, next white and blue, then beige and black roof (which wins the Einstein award when parked anywhere in the Lower 48 from March to November).
Remember the rock guard:
Tugged at my heart strings to remove decades of intricate lichen.
Massive amounts of scrubbing and this begins to emerge:
His Lordship inspects progress. Finds peasant woman old and slow, but seeing as he's fresh out of minions, he tolerates her.
Peasant might earn an extra serving of gruel tonight.
But, she'll get no alone time.
If only he could proof read, and not stand up, which is surprisingly counterproductive.
I may have bitten off more than I can chew with the renovation of the trailer, but what an adventure lays ahead!!!
