The only other concern we had, besides the doors and levelers, was how to pay for an RV. Do we finance it, or do we plunder our accounts. I punched numbers, crunched numbers and I laid awake fretting about numbers. No matter the decision I made, someone was going to get some of our money. If we financed it, the bankers got interest. If we cashed in, the gov’t got taxes.
I spent most of the week-end worrying about money, the future, and day-dreaming of reading a book in the Smokey Mtns, squeezing through the tunnels in West Virginia, or pulling the boat to Beaver Creek every spring for the white bass spawn. Tom spent most of the weekend looking through the voluminous “Owner Information Manuals” we’d brought home with us. Normally I’m accustomed to “settling for” and “making-do” and seldom get to choose exactly what I like or what I want. This felt good.
And how odd is it that Floyd Boze’s son is the neighbor of the people we’re buying it from? The people who are selling us their RV eat eggs laid by chickens I once had.
