When I was growing up, my Mom decided to sell our great old Jefferson Street house after my Dad unexpectedly died of a heart attack in his early 40s.
It was shortly after I moved out to begin college, and she apparently felt we didn’t need that big of a place to live in anymore. Too much maintenance, house payments beyond her means, etc.
So she did a complete-180 and bought a trailer house.
It was my first introduction into trailer -- that is to say, mobile home -- life.
I would come back home on college breaks and find no bedroom for me anymore. My two younger brothers were already sharing the second bedroom in the too-small trailer, so I would end up at my Grandma’s house across town.
(My Grandma: The closest to a real angel that I’ve ever met in my life. But I digress...)
As it turned out, Mom wasn't done with trailer life. When she decided to relocate to The Big City, she moved into another trailer park and -- again -- there was no room for me.
I began to resent trailers and trailer life -- especially the kind of parks my Mom ended up in. They were the classic, stereotypical parks full of -- we’ve all heard the expression -- trailer trash. You know: People with too many noisy kids, barking dogs, loud motorcycles, crap piled up around their units, etc., etc.
And while I was developing a real antipathy for trailers, I found myself living in one during one Summer break from college. Hey, it was about the only thing I could afford working for minimum wage in the mid-1970s.
So I joined the ranks of trailer trash in the eyes of those driving by and staring contemptuously at my roadside, somewhat rundown park.
I tried not to think about it too much as that Summer slipped away…
After I got married and started a family, my focus was on finding that perfect home in a perfect place with a perfect climate and...well, you know, the kind of place that MAYBE only exists for those with large bank accounts.
And -- happily -- for us.
Up till then, married life had been a series of apartments and rental homes as our search for Paradise went on. But eventually we found something approaching that elusive perfection: a little A-frame mountain home on seven tree-covered acres in the northern Colorado Rockies.
For almost three decades, my family and I called that heavenly mountain refuge our home. Despite the 45-minute drives to work, it was wonderful.
But circumstances beyond our control ultimately brought my empty-nest wife and me back to town, and again I found myself living in a trailer -- I mean, mobile home -- park. But this one was far different from any I had experienced before.
First, it was for adults 55-and-over only. So no kids running around at all hours screaming and yelling and doing who-knows-what. No barking dogs. No motorcycles or loud vehicles.
Also, no piles of junk or garbage. This park is well-maintained by residents who truly care about their home environments. And the people who live here are mostly very friendly -- usually giving a wave when you drive by.
It’s like living in a small community where you know most everybody and they know you. And that’s a nice thing.
I don’t know if I’ll ride out the rest of my Earthly time here in the park, but I think I easily could.
Because it’s home. A decent, safe, affordable home.
And that means a lot in today's world.
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