If you’re here because you think I somehow met Dolly Parton, I’m sorry to let you and me both down. Hopefully, one day, I’ll have a badass blog post about how I did meet the country superstar. For the time being, I’m talking about my RV.
Oddly enough, I’ve never been a die hard Dolly fan. Don’t get me wrong though! The more I listen and learn, the more I fall in love her sound and soul. Quite honestly, my rig’s name is Dolly simply because I have a motorcycle named Jolene. And I named my motorcycle Jolene because I liked the song. And it’s a damn sexy name for a bike, if I do say so myself.
Anyway, let’s get on to the story of how dear Dolly and I first met. It begins a little while back, but it makes sense in the end. It always does…
First, Things Fell Apart
The quest for an RV began long before Zach and I had called it quits. We were supposed to travel together, but only one of us was steadfast for living instead of dreaming. By the time Dolly and I were finally ready to meet, I’d been unknowingly preparing myself all along to find her, scouring the internet and Uncle Henry’s for the right fit that had never came.
It’s always a funny feeling, looking back and discovering why things might not have been working the way you’d hoped. Sometimes, things just aren’t meant to be, until they are.
In the two weeks that followed the collapse of Zach and I’s relationship, finding an RV became a litteral obsession for me. September was coming to a close at that time. Cool breezes were turning to brisk winds, and the bareness of the branches began to make their appearance.
Surely, fall and winter are the most lovely of seasons. Relaxed. Peaceful. Yet, my heart was not ready to relax or be at peace. My internal clock shouted at me to get. the fuck. out. I didn’t want to be in town anymore. The world was waiting. Sellers began to hear from me more often than family and friends, as I feverishly contacted any and every soul getting rid of an RV.
Specific Criteria
I knew what I wanted, and what I needed. A conversion van, Class B type rig, would’ve been awesome. However, there needed to be room for Suzie and Alice, too. I wasn’t going anywhere without my kitties. Besides, people were asking fad prices for #vanlife that I just couldn’t afford. Class A motorhomes were oddly way cheaper, but the size intimidated the shit out of me, especially driving alone.
The middle road was where I’d find something small enough for me to feel comfortable driving, spacious enough for a lady and two cats, and affordable enough for, well, a newly single woman trying to abruptly live and travel in an RV alone with her two cats. It was settled. A classy Class C, was the option for me.
Finally, a couple perspective choices came along.
A Ride to Remember
About a five or six hour drive from me, in northern Maine, was a 1986 Toyota mini cruiser. It looked perfect. Some minor things were needed, but it was the distance that daunted me. Half a day’s drive to see if something was worth it. I was scared. There felt like little time to waste.
So instead, my best friend and I traveled a few hours to Vermont, close to crossing the border into Canada, where a resembling rig resided. Paul was selling a 1979 Sunline Datsun. Super similar to the mini cruiser, but half the price and half the distance. Stupid me was already sold, even though the pictures online were blurry and Paul was terrible at responding.
Katie and I burned through the curves of the road and blew smoke at the majesty of the foliage. The day felt good. The drive, therapeutic and beauteous. I felt good. Optimistic. We entered a quaint town, rounded a corner, and then… came to an area where the locals probably don’t walk at night.
Risky Business
Antiquated brick buildings turned to public housing, and we eventually faced a junkyard on the outer edge. There we were- two lovely women, greeted by six scruffy dudes, a third of them shirtless (sorry, not sorry, for judging). I put the Chevy in park on the backside of the building and hopped out before Katie did, standing up straight and tall, showing these men I was meaning business.
“Which one of ya’ll is Paul?” I hollered and nodded to the motley crew coming toward us.
They looked around at each other and scratched their heads. Oddly enough, we all seemed unsure of who Paul was for a moment, when finally the man of the hour emerged from the mob, and took my outstretched hand.
Walking over to the little ray of yellow sunshine parked out back, it was clear the old rv had been beaten on by some heavy weather and use.
Coming In Clutch
Katie and I exchanged wide eyed glances. She started the walk around. I popped inside to feel for soft spots and other damage, finding all of the above and more. Paul eagerly got to work trying to start her up. My kind little mind began to race. How am I gonna tell this guy, fuck no, and get outta here? That’s when he called back to me from the cab to the coach…
“Agh, the clutch is being a bitch and stickin,’” Paul fussed, while struggling to keep a lit butt in his mouth and diddling with the shift stick. Now was my chance.
“I’m sorry, the clutch? Shit. Paul,” I began to confess, “Definitely thought this was an automatic. I don’t even know how to drive a standard,” (which, both statements were true). He stared at me with a what the fuck? look on his face. Can’t say I blame him. I then politely apologized for wasting part of his day before peeling out and hightailing it home, with my best friend by my side.
Fate and Facebook Step In
Back to square one. But not really, because now, I’d had first hand experience of what definitely did not feel right for me. What did still feel right though, was the style of both the far away Toyota and the POS Datsun. Sure, they’re Class C, but more petite and sleek than the average. Sexy, badass lowrider versions, if you will. But hey, I told myself with mustered up positivity, the right RV will come along and you’ll know.
Sure as shit, a couple days later, it did.
Another 1986 Toyota mini motorhome was camping right over in Poland, Maine. Go friggin figure. Not far from me at all, and heck, I’d even driven through that area bajillions of times on the way to visit family. My fingers couldn’t message the woman on Facebook Marketplace fast enough. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to check this one out too.
She responded with a phone number, explaining that the RV belonged to her dad, Ros, and there were already a few folks lined up to see it that afternoon and the next day. I was at work until 4pm and now suddenly extremely anxious. I begged the Universe to give me a chance to check it out before someone snatched it up.
Looking back, the last message that Ros’ daughter sent to me now reads auspiciously ominous…Good luck.
Retro Love At First Sight
That evening, with maybe an hour of light to spare, my father and step mother pulled up behind me at the campground entrance. The prospective buyers that had shown up during the afternoon wanted time to think, so the Universe had granted me that opportunity I’d asked for.
“Thank you guys for coming to meet me,” I said through the rolled down window, with that twinge of guilt in my voice, when you’re an adult asking your parents for help.
Yet, I’m one of the lucky ones with parents that love and support me and all the crazy dreams I want to manifest. Just over a year before, they’d also helped Zach and I tow home a broken down fifth wheel camper to use the frame for a tiny home (see, told you I’d been wanting this lifestyle for a while). Now, they were helping me assess an RV to live in.
We pulled forward and crawled slowly around the curves and bends of the campground until we made it to the very back edge. And there she was. In a small sea of shiny modern big rigs, her flashback paintjob and body style stuck out like a sore thumb. An older gentleman and his wife stood up from the picnic table and directed my parents and I where to park our two vehicles.
Checking Her Out
The man’s name was Ros, Rosaire actually, and he’d recently bought the Granville from a fellow Mainer. After a bit of camping though, he and his old lady felt that the granny had too little space. I took one step inside the RV, and determined the opposite for myself.
Sure, the outdated carpet and maroon upholstery were kinda (very) hideous, and she still smelled like the 80’s, but there was plenty of potential to be perfect for me.
We all proceeded with the walk around. I climbed up on the roof looking for soft spots while my father inspected the frame. Upon popping the hood, hands on my hips, I nodded, pretending I knew what I was looking at, and asked, “What do you think, Dad?” To the both of us, things looked like they were in good shape. So, it was time to take her for a spin.
Driving Miss Dolly
After unplugging and unhooking all the extras, then rolling up the awning, Ros hopped in through the back door and took a seat on the couch. My dad snagged shotgun. With keys in hand and butterflies in my tummy, I turned the ignition and she roared to life.
Holy shit. I paused for a minute, realizing how petrified I was to drive a truck with a house for an ass. At only 21 feet long, she’s not much bigger than a regular pick up, and I was used to driving a Chevy with a cap. But this, this felt like I needed a CDL first.
I took a deep breath and, using my big toe like Spongebob, ever so delicately pressed on the gas pedal.
I Actually Can Drive 55
We slooowly pulled away from the campsite, with my heart pounding to a tempo similar to the opening drum solo of Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.” Reaching the entrance to the campground, I took a right onto the black top.
A perfect straight away to test her out, I began to feel slightly comfortable, and pressed on the gas a bit more. As we sped on down the road, I hollered over my shoulder to the coach, “How you doing back there, Ros?” But he couldn’t hear me over the rumble of the engine and the Newton’s cradle motion of the window blinds.
A few miles down the road, we spotted a turn around, along with an opportunity for me to try backing that ass up (the motorhome, obviously). Carefully, cautiously, I shifted into reverse.
Instinctively, I looked over my shoulder to see out the back window. Nope, I thought, that ain’t gonna do shit for you now, Jess. There was nobody around except for us and the sun was sinking. Still, sweat started beading on my upper lip and forehead like there was a spotlight shining on my face.
Glancing side to side between the mirrors, one of them being broken and bungee-corded, I was able to successfully back up the RV and pull forward out of the small lot we were in. I then finally exhaled and began the short drive back to the campground.
Happiness Has No Price
It was time to dicker, as my confidence meter had finally gotten a slight boost. Ros and I went back and forth a bit before respectfully settling on a price.
All the while, my dad sat quietly in the passenger’s seat, witnessing his baby girl act like a grown ass woman, handling shit. This was the start of many proud father/daughter moments to be had during this journey.
Hindsight, I probably would have negotiated harder and got a better price, but it doesn’t matter now anyway. Even then, I knew what I wanted and what I needed.
After exchanging cash, keys, and a handshake, Dolly was all mine.