“Think you’ll make it down to Rochester in your RV this summer?” I asked my parents as we chatted on the phone last week.
“I don’t know,” my dad said. “We haven’t really taken it out this year.”
“Is it because you’re afraid of losing mom in it?” I asked — delivering a family joke that, 25 years in, never gets old.
It harkens back to 1996, the year Jay and I moved to Rochester. Early that fall, my parents decided to make the 400-mile trip to see our new apartment in their Pace Arrow RV.
The day started innocently enough. But then, a couple hours into their trip, my dad pulled over on the side of the road to check on his motorcycle, which was trailered on the back.
While he checked the bike, my mom decided she could use some fresh air, too. So she hopped out the passenger door and made her way to the back of the motorhome … just in time to see her husband jog up the other side, jump in the driver’s side door, and pull away.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she thought as she watched my dad drive off into the horizon. “How does he not realize I’m gone? I was sitting next to him when we stopped!”
My dad did, of course, realize my mom was gone. He just assumed she’d walked back to the bedroom for a nap. In his defense, it was something she frequently did on long drives. Which explains why he kept driving … and driving … and driving south.
Meanwhile, back on the side of Highway 10, my mom assessed the situation. It was 9 p.m. on a moonless September night somewhere between Perham and New York Mills. She had no cell phone. No purse. No one to turn to to say, “What just happened?!”
So she did the only thing she could do: She started walking. Certain my father would return for her any minute, she kept potential rescuers (and “crazy people”) at bay by pretending to be out for a power walk, wildly swinging her arms whenever cars passed by.
Over the course of the next two hours, she passed a potato plant (no phone), a farmhouse (big dog), and three skunks. It wasn’t until after the skunks — and the realization that her husband had no idea that she wasn’t in that RV — that she finally accepted a ride with a truck driver. He dropped her 20 miles down the road at the first open gas station they found.
Meanwhile, just north of St. Cloud, my dad pulled his RV over. Figured this was as good a time as any to wake his wife, who’d been sleeping back in the bedroom for some time now.
Except, as you and I know, she wasn’t there.
When he didn’t find her in the bedroom, my dad checked the bathroom. Looked under the table. Tried the bedroom again. As he tells it — and he’s told this story a lot — “Honest to God, I was looking in cupboards.”
Piecing together what must have happened, he called 911. Admitted that he lost his wife … in his RV. He was sent to one State Patrol dispatcher, and then another, who told him that there were reports of a woman wandering the median on Hwy 10.
My dad then drove 90 miles per hour back up Highway 10 in search of his wife.
It was at about this time that the phone in my apartment rang. “Have you heard from your dad?” my mom asked as soon as I answered.
“… Isn’t he with you?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m at a gas station in Wadena.” The story unfolded — including the part about how she couldn’t get through to my dad’s phone. I called my uncle, who promised to reach my father.
And he was true to his word. Because, as it closed in on midnight and my dad sped up Highway 10, his cell rang: “Is that motorhome so big you could lose your wife in it?” my uncle asked.
The rescue was swift. My parents arrived in Rochester the next day. Which is also when 25 years of mocking officially began. “Oh look!” we said when they arrived at our door. “Dad decided to bring Mom, after all.”
“I don’t know,” my dad said. “We haven’t really taken it out this year.”
“Is it because you’re afraid of losing mom in it?” I asked — delivering a family joke that, 25 years in, never gets old.
It harkens back to 1996, the year Jay and I moved to Rochester. Early that fall, my parents decided to make the 400-mile trip to see our new apartment in their Pace Arrow RV.
The day started innocently enough. But then, a couple hours into their trip, my dad pulled over on the side of the road to check on his motorcycle, which was trailered on the back.
While he checked the bike, my mom decided she could use some fresh air, too. So she hopped out the passenger door and made her way to the back of the motorhome … just in time to see her husband jog up the other side, jump in the driver’s side door, and pull away.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she thought as she watched my dad drive off into the horizon. “How does he not realize I’m gone? I was sitting next to him when we stopped!”
My dad did, of course, realize my mom was gone. He just assumed she’d walked back to the bedroom for a nap. In his defense, it was something she frequently did on long drives. Which explains why he kept driving … and driving … and driving south.
Meanwhile, back on the side of Highway 10, my mom assessed the situation. It was 9 p.m. on a moonless September night somewhere between Perham and New York Mills. She had no cell phone. No purse. No one to turn to to say, “What just happened?!”
So she did the only thing she could do: She started walking. Certain my father would return for her any minute, she kept potential rescuers (and “crazy people”) at bay by pretending to be out for a power walk, wildly swinging her arms whenever cars passed by.
Over the course of the next two hours, she passed a potato plant (no phone), a farmhouse (big dog), and three skunks. It wasn’t until after the skunks — and the realization that her husband had no idea that she wasn’t in that RV — that she finally accepted a ride with a truck driver. He dropped her 20 miles down the road at the first open gas station they found.
Meanwhile, just north of St. Cloud, my dad pulled his RV over. Figured this was as good a time as any to wake his wife, who’d been sleeping back in the bedroom for some time now.
Except, as you and I know, she wasn’t there.
When he didn’t find her in the bedroom, my dad checked the bathroom. Looked under the table. Tried the bedroom again. As he tells it — and he’s told this story a lot — “Honest to God, I was looking in cupboards.”
Piecing together what must have happened, he called 911. Admitted that he lost his wife … in his RV. He was sent to one State Patrol dispatcher, and then another, who told him that there were reports of a woman wandering the median on Hwy 10.
My dad then drove 90 miles per hour back up Highway 10 in search of his wife.
It was at about this time that the phone in my apartment rang. “Have you heard from your dad?” my mom asked as soon as I answered.
“… Isn’t he with you?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m at a gas station in Wadena.” The story unfolded — including the part about how she couldn’t get through to my dad’s phone. I called my uncle, who promised to reach my father.
And he was true to his word. Because, as it closed in on midnight and my dad sped up Highway 10, his cell rang: “Is that motorhome so big you could lose your wife in it?” my uncle asked.
The rescue was swift. My parents arrived in Rochester the next day. Which is also when 25 years of mocking officially began. “Oh look!” we said when they arrived at our door. “Dad decided to bring Mom, after all.”