Love is Blind

When you are young and in love, you look at the world through rose tinted glasses. When I accepted my husband’s marriage proposal, I told him I did not care where we lived as long as we were together. I believe I even went so far as to say I’d be willing to live in a tent with him, since we needed to be close to the family owned and operated campground. I was encircled by the whirlwind of romance. Looking back, it would be more accurate to state that I was in the eye of a hurricane.
What can I say? My glasses were as thick as coke bottles, and well tinted!
In retrospect, a tent would have been an upgrade from what we had to live in. It was a 20 year old 10x50 foot mobile home that was not maintained by any stretch of the imagination. When their renters moved out, we spent a week cleaning the nicotine off the ceiling and walls. The counter that held the sink was collapsing, and had to be propped up by a pair of 2x4’s so the food did not slide off onto the floor. The sink was pink, the stove was gold, and the fridge was the original Frigidaire that my husband’s parents bought when they first married back in the early 1940’s. You know the kind--, rounded top-- tiny box in the middle of the top shelf that held one ice cube tray and one half gallon of ice cream. You had to finish the ice cream fast, otherwise the frost would develop around it, entombing the contents until you unplugged the fridge and hacked away the ice with a hammer.

The amount of nicotine on the paneled walls and ceiling was repulsive to me. The latest tenants were told to leave in February, so that we’d have time to clean and do necessary repairs. After the third scrubbing on the ceiling, we made the decision to paint. It was impossible to remove the swirls of brown on white, since the years of nicotine coating would shift with every wipe. The first coat of ceiling white served as a primer, and we left our paint rollers standing on paper towels to drain on the kitchen counter with a small sense of accomplishment. I might mention the accomplishment was not only that the ceiling was painted, but that we were able to get the rollers to remain vertical. This was due to the fact that the kitchen counter was collapsing and was tilted at about a ten degree angle.

My heart sank just a bit the next day when we entered the trailer to apply the second coat of paint on the ceiling. It wasn’t just that I was hoping the paint would have hidden the swirls of nicotine more than it had; it was because our paint rollers were standing on the paper towels and filled with dog food! That was when it hit me. We were not going to be living alone! The years of tenants with dogs, the age and level of deterioration of the unit, and the resourcefulness of the uninvited squatters had turned my home into a food shelter for mice. To this day, I hate the thought of sharing even the tiniest corner of a room with those little rodents.

Another distinguishing feature of our first home was the total lack of insulation in the walls. There was the aluminum skin of the mobile home, four inches of air space and about 1/8th inch thick paneling which was the interior wall. We realized tinsel on the Christmas tree was not an option, since it kept blowing off due to the lack of insulation. It was the only place I knew of that you can sit inside watching TV and leave with a windswept look to your hair.

A hole in the wall above the guest room bureau was repaired by the previous tenant by screwing an old framed mirror, (which no longer had any silvering on the back side) over the gaping hole in the paneling. This same flair for repair was used in the shower above the faucet. Judging by the height and placement of the shiny patch, I believe the previous male tenant thought himself quite the ladies man.


I would not have described myself as a city girl, even though I was from Trenton. My neighborhood back then still had woods, a swamp, and blocks that remained undeveloped. My father and brothers were into hunting and fishing and our yard, though not huge, had almost every kind of tree, shrub and flower that you could imagine. Hence the reason there were only patches of grass where the sun managed to slip through the boughs of overlapping trees. We were raised with bb guns and bows and arrows. No toy arrows with suction cups, they were for sissies. We ate venison, pheasant and fish quite often, since my father was either hunting or fishing every weekend that I could remember. We also had plenty of meats because that was his business. He was a butcher and owner of a wholesale meat co. It was the vegetables and fruits we yearned for on a regular basis. When we did get them, dad went to the extreme. Mom would complain she’d like to have bananas, so dad would bring home a case of bananas, not just one bunch. Everything arrived by the case, so you’d have to gorge yourself on that particular treat until it was gone or ‘til you couldn’t look at another piece of that particular fruit.

Still, I was not prepared for the culture shock that hit me when I started dating a Taylor.
I learned early on that dating a campground operator, meant I would have to come to him from April through October, which was the camping season. I tried to come up to the campground every weekend I could. I’d tag along with him while he worked. As I stated earlier, my rose tinted glasses were as thick as coke bottles. Picking up garbage at the sites and walking camp at night were our “dates”. Yet being young and in love made even the dirtiest of jobs fun.

Eating at camp was another story altogether. I realized with some trepidation that the Italian cuisine on which I was raised would not be on the menu in Columbia. I never knew what Clate’s mom would be serving. To be on the safe side, I’d make a slight detour through the drive thru McDonald’s and eat before I arrived. Venison, and chicken were totally acceptable, but each time the frog legs, rattlesnake, duck, squirrel, eel and turtle were served, I made a mental note to support Mickey D’s to ensure they’d never go out of business, and I would never starve to death in this culinary black hole I ventured into. Rodent pot pie was not something I ever cared to become accustomed to.

I was however, accepted into the family from the first day they met me. That is, until we announced our engagement. From then on, any mention of a wedding prompted an immediate change of subject. I was sure they hated me. Instead, as time passed, it became apparent to me that they worried I would not like living so far from my family Their biggest fear was if I left, their son might leave with me. Clayton was the one they depended on for running the business. Once they realized I was here to stay, I do believe they treated me as well as if I was their own daughter.

Over the years, the lenses have thinned, and the rose tint has faded, though thankfully not where my marriage is concerned. I do not need any glasses to see how lucky I am in the choice I have made.
I am now firmly rooted into the lifestyle of campground owner/operator. Well, rooted may not be the correct choice of words. More like Alfred Lloyd Tennyson’s poem “Flower in the Crannied Wall”. I’m just waiting to be plucked from the cranny!