After a test drive and thorough inspection a few years back, a licensed mechanic gave me the green-light and I payed cash for a 1989 Winnebago Warrior from a private owner. 20-minutes later, it broke-down on the way back to the house.
That night, there was a heavy downpour. Morbidly curious, I grabbed an umbrella and trekked up the driveway to check the interior. Sure enough, it was raining as hard INSIDE the camper as it was outside. Truly, an admirable job by the previous owner to cosmetically conceal years of previous water damage and neglect.
Undeterred, I spent countless hours tearing the Winnebago apart – inside and out – without a single clue as to what I was doing. Eventually, with some Ozarks ingenuity and at least 50 trips to Lowe’s, I refinished the walls, ceiling and inside cabinetry; installed new roofing and sealed every crack with the stickiest, soupiest slop you could possibly imagine. Victory.
Sadly, we lost the most beloved member of our family last Spring. Rather than hunt for a dog-sitter last minute, we loaded up “The Investment” (as we now call it), and headed for Texas. 40-miles west of Little Rock, we blew a tire…and missed the visitation.
While we have had a few wonderful, drama-free excursions in “The Investment,” it has obviously earned a reputation. Just pulling it out the driveway is like an Apollo launch. The boosters light and the rocket lifts, but you never quite feel certain that the capsule will make it back.
Enter some Winne-Redemption. Yesterday, knowing that my client didn’t have much “quiet space” in his new place of business, I fired-up “The Investment” and headed his way for a recording session. I pulled in the back, plugged-in, set-up gear in the galley with some soundproofing, and we got to work. Aside from a few pauses to wait for wailing firetrucks to pass, it worked great. In just over an hour, we knocked out two commercials, I tore down, unplugged and headed back to the house. Nice.
While “The Investment’s” reputation precedes it, here’s hoping yesterday was the beginning of atonement. But like members of Mission Control back in Houston, I won’t hold my breath – I’d prefer to remain conscious, ready with bailing wire and duct tape to handle whatever drama she decides to dole-out next.
