“Where’s your husband?” fellow trailer park denizens (mostly the guys) inquire.
“Inside,” I respond. “Ashes. In a box on my shelf.”
Most full-time RVers are couples, or construction workers on temporary jobsite contracts. Women – especially elders – don’t usually choose to do this life alone.
Yet I’ve rarely let my sex be a barricade to something I’ve wanted to do, credit for which goes to my Norwegian dad. Embracing his American naturalization, he became a devoted Dodger fan. Together we would listen to Vin Scully calling the games, as Sandy Koufax fired strike after strike past opposing batters.
“When I grow up, I’m going to be the next Sandy Koufax,” my 7-year-old self told Dad.
He did not say “You can’t. You’re a girl.”
Instead he said: “Susan, they don’t let women play pro baseball now. Maybe they will by the time you grow up. If not – you make them let you play.”
I hook my trailer to my pickup, check again that all is secure, and pull away, with my radio serenading, “Put me in, coach. I’m ready to play…today.”
Brava, Sue! You show ’em.