Oh, my misanthropy

I often tell stories, to myself and others, about my propensity for misanthropy. Our daily serving of information about the world, usually delivered to us by a cynical media, is heavy with destruction, hatred and unspeakable cruelty. It bums me out. This information poison makes me resent the entire human race as a blight on this rare world. On a more intimate scale, I frequently begrudge the presence of other humans when they inevitably intrude on the more sublime and solitary moments of my life: a beach walk with Harry in a quiet cove, photographing butterflies in the Elfin Forest, or searching for wildflowers in the chaparral hills. I have been known to call myself a grouch and a recluse. I am not particularly proud of this side of myself, nor am I apologetic. It just seems to be the way my thinking turns. So what am I to do to survive (and stay sane) in this crowded, crowded world?

One strategy that I am determined to try while on the road (and it's clear to me my road trip has begun even while my tires still rest in SLO county) is to allow myself to meet people. I want to have the chance to partake of their beauty, and share what beauty I have with them. When my inclination is to hide away, I want to offer my open hand. This week, while navigating the unpredictable waters of craigslist, I discovered that even the littlest bit of sharing between two strangers can invoke joy. This week a man sold me a camper, you see, and it was a lesson in goodness.

I first talked to my camper man Wednesday evening.  On the phone, he told me that someone else was coming to look at it and that he would call me later to let me know if it was still available. Then we had a conversation about my trip, and my truck and my dreams about the perfect camper. As we ended the call he said, "Well, I'm just going to talk this fella out of buying it, 'cause you seem like such a nice lady." And so he did. This was my first hint that this would not be a typical craigslist interaction.

Rick is retired at 70 and living in Oceano in a modest mobile home park with his wife and his shop and his collection of 1000 fishing rods (he doesn't fish). He is selling his dream of a camper because, as he said, "His body would no longer cooperate with what his mind wanted to do." His grandchildren were visiting---he beams when he speaks their names. He took trouble to practice the pronunciation of my name (this is a great gift in my world), listened as I told him my sister's, and frequently used both my name and Lisa's as he spoke. As he began to show us his camper, Rick explained how disappointed he had been by the reaction of potential buyers to the minor cosmetic flaws, so disappointed he'd taken down the ad and had just regained the courage to repost it yesterday. I think he could see that I would not be like those buyers before me---I was in love.

So Rick and Lisa and I spent the next few hours exploring the interior, taking and comparing measurements, wrestling with jacks, discussing beagles and fishing rods and, finally, lifting the camper off his truck and settling it on mine. The fit was perfect. Finally, after assuring me that he would not let me drive away until the camper was safely secured, he went to the hardware store to get the proper turnbuckles (that word makes me giggle), drilled, sawed, hammered, sweated and never once uttered the slightest word of complaint until the camper was firmly affixed.

"I think it was waiting for me." I said.
"I believe it was", said Rick.

I handed him cash---I did not haggle. I hugged instead.

Rick lowers the camper onto my truck bed while I hold my breath