Let My RV Go!

Let My RV Go!

-a novel-

Nicole Nathan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright (c) 2013 by Nicole Nathan

Edited by Doron Kornbluth

Typeset and designed by Rayzel Broyde All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from both the copyright holder and the publisher.

author’s note:

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters and incidents are used fictitiously.

Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere,

and sometimes in the middle of nowhere you find yourself.

author unknown

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Special Delivery

Purim Day

Still Purim — and the Cat’s Out of the Bag

Post-Purim Blues

To RV or Not to RV

Make Sure My Beach Chair Reclines

Destined for Destin

Classy Class C

Six Days till Departure

Culinary Calculations

Flotsam Aboard

Trailer Trash, Meet Dumpster

Sugar Fix

Judging Favorably

Fishing for an Eruv

The Holy Sabbath

Going To Be Friends

It’s All For The Good

Be My Caddy for the Grand Slam

A Slice of Serendipity

Wanderlust in Walmart

Transformation

Gazing for Gators

Cleaning the Dashboard for Pesach

Eighteen Is for Chai

Mah Nishtanah?

Glossary

Special Delivery

Cups filled to the brim with steaming coffee and seat belts fastened, we inch our way down the driveway. I take a sip and look out into a dark night. A face suddenly fills my window, old and chiseled with a long, white beard. A gnarled hand waves at me and knocks on the passenger window.

Stop the RV, Sam! I cry out, pointing my coffee cup at the window. You see that button beside your arm, Pauline? It’s for opening the window. Why don’t you press it and we’ll see what this gentleman wants.

I lower my window and the stranger, his black hat level with bushy white eyebrows, lifts up a box and pushes it through the window towards me. His coat sleeve catches on the window pulling back his coat. Six digits are crudely tattooed onto his wrinkly forearm. A chill tremors down my spine.

I hear you’re going south, he says. "Take this box to Reb Schwadron. It is hand-made matzah and it is important he has it for Passover. You are the messenger. May G-d guard you and may you have a safe, meaningful trip. Shalom Aleichem."

The box drops onto my lap and the man backs away from the car. Hunched over in his long black coat, he is quickly swallowed by darkness.

I examine the package, gently turning it. It is wrapped in newspaper and simply tied with a string.

Sam, Sam…there’s no address on the box. Who was he? And why did he hand the box to me? Why am I the messenger? What do we do now?

But my dear husband is absorbed in thought, listening to a tape on the metaphysical reasons behind creation.

Sam backs the RV out of our driveway, makes it to the end of the street and turns right. Feeling confident, he puts his foot on the gas pedal and just as he gains some momentum, there is a huge bang. Icy air whips our faces. Looking into the side mirror, I see one of my running shoes fly into a neighbor’s driveway. And then a sandal pops out onto the roadside.

Mike Shapiro, who is following us in his own RV, can’t resist giving us a traffic report. Trailer Trash Sam, do you read me? I know you like to commune with nature, but it might be easier to drive with your door closed.

Sam slams on the brakes and the RV screeches to a halt.

Two lonely shoes are harvested from the roadside. One door is securely fastened. Sam hits the gas pedal and we speed off. Officially. We sail along the highway into the night, sipping coffee, and one by one, our children drowse off.

It is midnight and I am awake. Wide awake. I start to bite my nails and tap the mysterious package nervously, my mind spinning and tumbling. Huh! I was actually lulled into thinking that I was on vacation. I even allowed myself to get excited—for a moment—and now this. I tug at the string angrily. It seems like there’s always something to worry about, to anguish over.

I honestly (although I would never tell this to a soul, certainly not to Julie Shapiro) wanted to get away from all of this; to drive away from the feeling that I must fit in with the community and to run from that heaviness I feel when I realize I don’t measure up.

I look down at the package and then over at Sam who is happily driving, listening to the third day of creation as if he had just experienced the first evening and first morning, his face aglow with wilderment. He is not going to help me out, I am sure of that. Sam will probably tell me to relax because my mysterious Reb Schwadron will simply appear out of nowhere without me even having to look for him.

My faith is not so fully developed, and this I cannot accept. There is no way I am going to run into this Reb Schwadron in an RV park—that much I am sure about. I could start by asking in synagogues down south, but which ones, and where?

As our RV races down the highway, I try to relax. I may have a new worry, but at least we’re on vacation. Ever since we moved into our new house, I wanted to escape. I think our reserved neighbors are also relieved that we are gone. Even they were not prepared when our moving truck screeched around the corner just one month ago, depositing cartons and six Berkovitzes smack in their center. Fingers delicately parted the curtains and eyes peered out inquisitively. Neighbors picked up their phones, and word of our arrival spread faster than the time it takes to bake kosher shmurah matzah—less than eighteen minutes. At least we gave them something to talk about.

A new family moved into Shulman’s house. Remember old Yankee Shulman? The one with the limp.

So, who can they be? He had no children.

Yes, but he had a cousin, the one who married Shmuel’s youngest. They could be the kids.

"Let’s send over a welcome basket. Purim is in a few days, so call Leahle and have her deliver mishloach manos."

This was March in the dead of a Canadian winter, a time when ice granules pummel a frozen wasteland and the thermometer dives to minus forty degrees Celsius.

It is now just one month later and we are leaving; although only for two weeks. I take the last sip of my coffee and sit back in my seat. I am wide awake, thanks to the caffeine. Sam is still absorbed in his Torah tapes. I rummage through my hand bag and pull out my journal, hoping to placate my nerves. It has a sticky coating. Is this from the cough syrup I stuffed in my purse as we ran out the door? Or maybe it’s that gooey gummy candy I snatched out of Tamar’s mouth earlier today? I may no longer work at the law firm, but I am still addicted to accounting for time, so I obsess over keeping a journal. Clicking on the flashlight, I see that the book has fallen open to March 18. As Mike contemplates the world and my children’s eyelids flicker dreamily, I read under a warm, glowing light.

Purim Day

Tuesday, March 18, 2003

Our large picture window looks onto waves of tiny bungalows, their red shingles gasping under winter’s white burden. Smack in the suburbs of Middleton, Ontario, this 1950s housing project was not exactly developed in a spurt of creativity. Perhaps the architect had one eye; those Cyclops-style living room windows blink to passersby, while the front door is hidden on the side, shriveled and insignificant. After a few days of living in this house, we are starting to feel convinced that we are Shulman’s relatives, but first we have to pass the inspection of the local shul’s Welcoming Committee. I have been told Mrs. Leah Trabinsky will visit us soon, so I am unpacking like a mad woman. I want the house to be in order; I want to show her that I am an upstanding neighbor—and a fine addition to the street—even though Sam and I are not Shulman’s cousins.

In the midst of all this, it is the holiday of Purim. Luckily, we are invited to the Shapiro’s for the festive meal today. We all heard the megillah reading in the morning and Sam, my better half, and the calm one in the family, volunteered to drive the children around town so they could deliver candy baskets to friends. I just put the finishing touches on their costumes and escorted my Star Wars legion from Planet Alderaan to the front porch: before me stood Darth Vader (a.k.a. Daniel, age 11); Princess Leia (Sarah, age 10); Luke Skywalker (Eli, age 4); and Yoda (Tamar, age 2). Of course Daniel had to remind me at the last minute that Star Wars was passé, all the while grumbling from somewhere deep inside his Darth Vader mask. Eli Skywalker stepped over to the Dark Side saying, "Yeah, no one likes Star Wars ’cause the new Lord of The Rings movie is now out and Frodo is the best hero ever." When Sarah told me that I am out of touch with reality, I wanted to ship them all off to a Hobbit shire. I had to threaten Daniel with his own saber so he knew he would not win this battle.

In the end, they left like real intergalactic heroes, and I stood in the doorway stupefied. For the first time ever, the Berkovitzes had family-themed costumes—and we moved into our new home a mere six days ago! Patting myself on my shoulder, I withdrew my hand in shock….but what about me, Pauline, the mishloach manos purchaser, assembler, costume designer and mother? And Sam? I completely forgot about placing the parents into my sci-fi theme. I can never get it right. I could rip open more boxes in order to assemble outfits for us (but what could we be?). I could make Sam C-3PO, that fun-loving protocol droid. He’s short enough, I think, wondering which box might produce the requisite robot parts. Nah. That’s not my Sam. He has to be Obi-Wan Kenobe. He’s my Jedi warrior, if ever there was one. As for my costume, time is running out in the Berkovitz wardrobe department. I look at my watch and gasp. 12:10 p.m. It is well past the megillah reading and a tad before the Purim meal. I bet Mrs. Trabinsky is coming now. I realize that I had better forfeit my creative dreams for our new Jedi Order: the Welcoming Committee.

Working like a bull, I heave all of the still-to-be-unpacked boxes to the back of the house. If the kids have to climb out of their beds and navigate across hills and dales of cardboard, so be it; our living room will look presentable. As of this morning, couches, rugs and the dining room table are in position. Sam even hung some pictures and hooked up the stereo. I slide in a classical CD and soon Mozart’s Sonata in D allegro is trilling through the house. For that warm, lived-in look, I gingerly position some plants on a coffee table.

I grab another box and tear at the tape. Digging inside, I pull out an item. It is wrapped in newspaper. The words beckon, and like a sailor being lulled to shore, I forget about the unpacking and carefully fold the old paper across my lap, placing a bubble-wrapped photo frame aside so I can focus on the newsprint.

I know I am addicted to words; I must read the captions below every exhibit in each museum and gallery I visit. I am not a fun companion on these outings as I get very irritated if I am pulled away mid-sentence. When my mother catches me reading junk mail, she reminds me that this addiction led me to law school. Who else wants to read small type, including semi colons, ibids and op. cits? I am also a news junkie and, even though I already read this newspaper, I am compelled to read it again.

I bury my head in it, my long blond curls falling atop the masthead: The New York Times. February 16, 2003. An aerial photo shows a twisting river of people snaking through downtown Rome. Below is a huge headline: The World Says No to War. I read that some three million protesters took to the streets in the largest anti-war rally on Saturday, February 15, and Rome was just one of 600 cities where 15 million people demonstrated worldwide. I neatly fold the paper and sink my head in my hands. There are still anti-war demonstrations across the globe. Just three days ago, 250,000 Montrealers protested in bone-chilling minus thirty-degree Celsius temperatures. And despite all of this, 100,000 American troops are in Kuwait waiting to enter Iraq. Is Iraq an intolerable threat to world peace, as George Bush says? Do Iraqis have chemical and biological weapons or weapons of mass destruction? I have a sudden urge to whip out Tamar’s strawberry scented markers and scrawl a slogan across one of my cardboard boxes. I want to write When Bush Comes to Shove and have a sign for Dentist Sam with the words Fight Truth Decay. We could stand outside holding our signs proudly just like I used to on campus. I look through the large living room window. The sidewalk is deserted. Snow, like frenzied frozen tumbleweed, whips up into balls and thrashes against the curb. A lone minivan passes by, windows steamy from its load of screaming, hyper children. I have a feeling no one would be interested in my homegrown campaign; they would probably think it was a unique Purim costume.

I smooth the newspaper and spy the picture frame, secure in its bubble wrap. I too want to be wrapped up like this, protected. My mind is sinking as I unwrap the photograph, in search of what is dearest to me. Here we are: me, Sam and the four kids, Daniel, Sarah, Eli and Tamar, grimacing that if-you-don’t-take-this-picture-now-my-face-will-crack smile.

Snap! We were all captured on film under that showy maple tree, a blaze of crimson leaves behind us. Daniel, with his neatly cropped brown hair, large brown eyes and freckled face looks so innocent—and yet so capable—as he manages to pinch Eli and Sarah while grinning impishly into the camera. Eli, despite being pinched, looks angelic with his rosy lips, head of golden curls and long peyos falling in neat ringlets to either side of his chubby face. Sarah felt the pinch and has that I’ll-get-you-back-Daniel look in her narrowed green eyes. Her bright red curls spring in all directions as she schemes, lips puckered, ready to bellow out, Daniel did it. I am holding Tamar against my hip, and I just cannot believe how fat I look. I pat my thighs, hoping that I am not as wide as I look in this photo, which was taken only three months ago. I also notice that my frizzy blond curls, which I stuff into a hat all day long, are insolently dangling over one shoulder. This somehow makes me look off-kilter. Sam, the picture of wholeness, stands in the center: upright, straight, with his one with the universe wide, happy smile. I can see he has lost more hair since this photo was taken and is plumper, but I know Sam would not fret over such mundane matters.

12:25 p.m. I brush off the family photo and proudly place it on the coffee table. Maybe it is the golden leaves in the background or Sarah’s mocha-colored sweater; but whatever the cue, I suddenly remember I am supposed to bring dessert to the Shapiros today—and I have not prepared a thing! Families around here bake at home, be it chocolate truffles, party-perfect parfaits or chocolate molten cakes. The pastry is always homemade—and even if you have six children or more, there are no excuses.

I, Pauline Berkovitz, at first un-costumed, am now dessert-less. I make a desperate retreat to my car, leaving a hasty note on the front door: Be back soon. Sam is sure to be gone for another hour at least. I am actually relieved no one will be at home. This way, the Welcoming Committee will be forced to place the basket on the front doorstep and leave with no small talk or inquiries about us.

I can already hear Mrs. T. prying, Your dear Uncle Yankee. I remember him so well. How are you related? And I stammer, Well, we aren’t really related. In fact, we aren’t from these parts. And then I imagine her digging, asking me where I’m from, what school I went to, what shul I prayed at when I was growing up, quickly locating us on a mental map with the precision of a thumbtack. And I would be sweating, knowing her zoning device has never poked the likes of Sam and me. We are ba’alei te-shuvah, also known as BTs; secular Jewish people who return to Orthodoxy, who have been in the dangerous outside world and have lived to tell the tale. I figure I should tiptoe lightly, lest we scare these lovely neighbors and send their thumbtacks spiraling.

1:10 p.m. I rush in, balancing a drooping cardboard box of pathetic doughnuts only to be greeted by a beaming Sam. He has taken off his sweater, uncovering a Harley Davidson t-shirt. The shirt is ripped across the front, baring his hairy King Kong chest. In the background, I can hear the deep bass of Def Leppard. Or is it Van Halen? Natural as the day she popped into the outstretched arms of the midwife, Tamar is crawling inside a discarded box.

Nice neighbors around here, mumbles Sam. Unable to talk over the thumping, heavy metal bass, he points to the coffee table with his hammer, a nail protruding from his mouth.

On the table sits a pretty wicker basket. Shiny ribbons are tied to the handle, pink and blue balloons innocently floating above. In horror, I read the attached card, "Purim Sameach and Welcome. May you only have simchahs. From the Bnai Avraham Welcoming Committee." Inside, candies, drops and mixed nuts are tied in pretty packages, wrapped in tightly curled matching blue ribbons.

Oh, no, I groan, falling to my knees, my head pressed into my hands. Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker, displaying innate sibling rivalry, dive for the basket. Within minutes, tiny candies and pistachio shells are sprinkled all over the carpet. Tamar parades around with the basket on her head, balloons drooping sadly towards the floor.

Still Purim — and the Cat’s Out of the Bag

Tuesday, March 18, 2003

1:17 p.m.

I turn off the music, insisting on hearing every small detail, so I can recreate the tortuous scene in my mind over and over again. Of course Mrs. Trabinsky knocked on the door after I was gone and while Sam was home. Indeed, it was after Sam squashed the sonata blaring his hard rock, and undoubtedly, it was after he ripped his t-shirt while wrestling with a table leg. As expected, Mrs. Trabinsky rang the bell just when Sam was changing Tamar’s diaper, and good soul that he is, he decided to forgo the clean diaper in order to be a responsive neighbor. Poor Mrs. T. first thought she had the wrong address. Then she thought Sam was the hired help. But, oh no, Sam was polite enough to inform her that this was the Berkovitz residence and that he was the inimitable Mr. Berkovitz. Call me Sam, he screamed in her ear. Her newly coiffed wig must have looked as if it had a life of its own. I am sure that if it could have stood up in fear, it would have run for cover, leaving poor Mrs. T. a little too exposed. She apparently backed out of the front door and ran down the steps to the safety of her car. Sam was kind enough to run after her, shouting "Purim Sameach to you!"

Sam! I scream, pulling out the pencil tucked behind his ear. "Looks like you want our kids to marry into a select sect of hard rockers, because no one in the frum world is going to want to make a shidduch with our kids now. I draw an imaginary X in the air with the pencil for extra effect. And, I continue, just warming up, if you think you can send Daniel to a good yeshiva and Sarah to girls-only swimming classes and Eli to Torah martial arts and Tamar to a religious Montessori nursery, you can forget it. Why can’t we just fit in without always making a scene?"

Pass me my pencil, Pauline. I want this picture to hang straight.

Sam, don’t you get it? Don’t you care about them?

Pauline, Sam replies, in his calm, self-actualized voice, we’ve talked about this before. I don’t care about them, whoever they are. I care about my own spiritual growth, which happens on the inside, not the outside. If they don’t like the way I dress, that is their problem. Pass my pencil, please.

"Guess the cat’s out of the ba’al teshuvah bag, I moan. And we haven’t even been here for a week."

And even though Sam has no patience for it, I know that the Orthodox world does care about how much we interact with the modern world. They consider the way we dress, the way we talk and the music we listen to, as these can all influence the purity of our souls. Sam has done his own deep soul searching and feels that he can balance the two worlds much like a tightrope walker who holds a china cup on a saucer as he crosses an abyss.

Smash! That Purim afternoon, my own insecurity wavered and my tea cup spiraled, shattering into pieces. I can’t play Sam’s game and will continue to fret about our recent coming out fiasco. Always. Now that the neighbors know about our past, I guess I need never worry about going through the painful antics of Jewish geography every time I meet someone at a Shabbos meal around here.

Jews waste no time when they are introduced to a fellow Yid. As soon as the introduction is made, you are asked where you were born, where you grew up to the nearest intersection and finally, where you went to school. The word public school is a real conversation stopper at a Shabbos table in these parts as religious Jews go to private Jewish schools.

Of course, none of this will ever apply to me. When I grew up here in the sixties, Middleton was a small town. There were a few Jewish families around—but no one in my neighborhood was religious. My Polish parents tried so hard to fit in