A poet in our travel trailer….

“Rumpole’s” parents loved to travel, and they did, rather modestly throughout the US and Canada  (for nearly 20 years) in their old Rambler they affectionately referred to as “Elaine”.

We had the desire to explore Western North America, and did so by car, and later in an old second-hand trailer.  We did look rather gypsyish compared to the huge and modern rigs which were outfitted with bump-outs, air-conditioning, microwaves and TV dishes.  Being used to having camped in tents in our early married life, we kept the accoutrements pretty basic and minimal so that the main purpose of our meanderings would not be focussed on anything but witnessing the wonders revealed to us during journeys.  I figured that if our-inlaws, a natty , handsome, and comfortable couple, could travel  for weeks at a time out of a couple of suitcases, surely “Rumpole” and  I,  much more relaxed in our attitudes, could do quite palatially well in our slightly tawdry trailer.

So, a large amount of space dedicated in our trailer was for books to read at night, camera equipment, sketchbooks and drawing materials for me. “Rumpole”, fully cognizant of the possibility for needed mechanical repairs stowed automotive tools, which had equal importance to any other category of item we carried. We also strapped on our bikes, so we could get around wherever we landed and explore places inaccessible by car which pulled the trailer.

As we travelled we ate by the side of the road, on grassy verges of farmer’s fields, truck stops and campsites which had laundry facilities. Often, while I sat off by myself drawing, “Rumpole” would either wonder off to take photos, or loll on the ground reading.

On return to our daily lives and doings in suburbia, the trailer sat out beside the house between an apple tree and a huge holly tree, and slightly hidden from the street by a casual hedge of very old rhododendrons.  Because our house was so tiny, the trailer became a little shelter for visiting friends.  There they had privacy and access to cooking on their own, but also use of  the amenities provided by our house.

One day a young friend who had left an unfortunate relationship came by for coffee. She expressed that option to return to her parent’s home was not one she could entertain, nor would bunking with friends.  But there sat the trailer, just waiting to be used. “Rumpole” and I looked at each other and with silent accord nodded, and he casually put out to this young woman – “Well, if you think you may find it comfortable in the trailer and sharing bath and washing facilities with us, you could always stay here for as long as you need to.” She stayed a short two months,  to sort out what she wished to do next.

So came to our lives this young poet. She nested in the trailer and made it quite her own. She put her little pottery jar on the dinette table and filled it with flowers she casually picked from the yard. She pinned a lovely kerchief she had bought at the Salvation Army store in the window. At night when we were in bed, “Rumpole” and I lay listening to music wafting from the trailer and in our open bedroom window, and sometimes to murmured conversations between this young poet and her visiting friends.  This was a most satisfactory arrangement.

Privately we mused that here was out opportunity to be sort of parent, friend, to someone who needed space to plan out her next moves in life – and that she was the gift of a daughter we never had.  And after all, our son “Renaissance Man” had experienced a similar situation in his life, a mere 7 years prior when he lived with an old friend while he was in transit between two communities and two schools?

Ten years later, this young poet has made a marvellous life for herself – she invents her life as she goes along, and has increased the circle of her supporters.  And she gives back through amazing writing. Our friend, “The Prissy German Tourist”, a fine web designer, artist, is currently putting together a  web-site for this young poet.

Within a month they should have her web-site up. So I’ll up-date this post to include her information for anyone who cares to drop in on her.

Elizabeth Bachinsky

“Home of Sudden Service”  poems,   www.nightwoodeditions.com

“CURIO – Grotesques and satires from the Electronic Age”  BookThug   Toronto

  http://www.bookthug.ca/miva.mvc?  Screen=PROD&Store_Code=apollinaire&Product_Code=1069&Category_Code=AA


4 Responses to “A poet in our travel trailer….”

  1. Dejan Says:

    The poet has a new thought: he has a whole new experience to unfold; he will tell us how it was with him, and all men will be the richer in his fortune. For, the experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet. I remember, when I was young, how much I was moved one morning by tidings that genius had appeared in a youth who sat near me at table. He had left his work, and gone rambling none knew whither, and had written hundreds of lines, but could not tell whether that which was in him was therein told: he could tell nothing but that all was changed,–man, beast, heaven, earth, and sea. How gladly we listened! how credulous! Society seemed to be compromised. We sat in the aurora of a sunrise which was to put out all the stars. Boston seemed to be at twice the distance it had the night before, or was much farther than that. Rome,–what was Rome? Plutarch and Shakspeare were in the yellow leaf, and Homer no more should be heard of. It is much to know that poetry has been written this very day, under this very roof, by your side. What! that wonderful spirit has not expired! these stony moments are still sparkling and animated! I had fancied that the oracles were all silent, and nature had spent her fires, and behold! all night, from every pore, these fine auroras have been streaming. Every one has some interest in the advent of the poet, and no one knows how much it may concern him. We know that the secret of the world is profound, but who or what shall be our interpreter, we know not. A mountain ramble, a new style of face, a new person, may put the key into our hands. Of course, the value of genius to us is in the veracity of its report. Talent may frolic and juggle; genius realizes and adds. Mankind, in good earnest, have arrived so far in understanding themselves and their work, that the foremost watchman on the peak announces his news. It is the truest word ever spoken and the phrase will be the fittest, most musical, and the unerring voice of the world for that time.

    Ralph Waldo Emerson – The Poet (1844)


    What a wonderful and inspiring story! Thanks so much for sharing, it just made my evening beautiful!

  2. Deborah Barlow Says:

    You are a consummate story teller. Thank you for sharing it.

  3. lookingforbeauty Says:

    Life is an adventure.
    your talent for a tale is wonderful. Especially when the tale is told in wonderment of simple daily life; of warmth and love of human relationships. You have fostered many an artist and a poet. Thank you for using your blog to bring some of them to us.


  4. suburbanlife Says:

    Thank you so much for your comments – but also what you share in your blogs to broadcast your findings of poetry and poets within your experience.

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