Crazy

Her children thought she was crazy. Her friends—well, acquaintances would be more accurate—thought she was crazy, too. But her children were grown with lives of their own, and the fact that she had second thoughts about referring to her friends by that name told her she wasn’t required to take their opinions under consideration.

Her husband’s opinion would have mattered, but his death two months ago had sparked this crazy venture, anyway.

So Martha bought a VW van, chose not to renew her lease, put her things in storage and took off to see the country.

The idea had been simmering beneath the surface for years. She’d married young, had children young and had missed out on the adventures young people were supposed to have. She’d talked with her husband about getting an RV someday, and he liked that idea, but she knew, somehow, that wasn’t really what she wanted. RVs and RV parks were accepted retirement adventures. She wanted something even crazier.

When she set out in her van, she had no itinerary, no reservations and no plan. She would start by heading west—that was all the planning she’d done. When she was hungry, she’d eat. When she was tired, she’d sleep. When she saw something interesting, she’d explore, whether that took two hours or two weeks.

“And what happens if your van breaks down?” her daughter asked. “What happens if you can’t find a safe place to park? Are you crazy, Mom?”

Yes, she supposed maybe she was. And she liked it. 

Riding the Rails

The question came up occasionally as an ice breaker at parties—what’s the first thing you would do if you won the lottery? Jake’s answer was always the same.

“I’d buy an old caboose,” he’d say. The other people at the party would see the dreamy intensity in his eyes and know this was something he’d put a lot of thought into. “I’d have it set up in the back yard and turn it into my writing studio.”

He knew, somehow, he’d be able to write better in a room like that than in the corner of the dining room he used for his office now. The words would chug right along like a train going down the tracks. He wouldn’t have any more fits and starts, squeezing the words out one at a time with each one causing cramps in his brain. He’d be like King or Oates, so prolific the publishing world couldn’t keep up with his output.

Jake never won the lottery, and he never managed to finish a book, but by the time he was ready to retire he’d saved a nice chunk of change. He found an old caboose for sale and got his wife to agree to the purchase, provided he had it set up where no one could see it from the street. So that was what he did.

On the first day of his retirement, Jake finished his breakfast, packed himself a sack lunch and went out to his studio. He had a place to write and now he had the time to write. He would finally be able to write the way he’d always wanted to.

The words didn’t come any easier. He supposed, deep down, he wasn’t surprised.

That didn’t mean he was disappointed with the caboose, though. The caboose was perfect. Now, when the words weren’t there, instead of staring at a blank wall feeling stupid he could look out the window and pretend he was a hobo riding the rails, or James Bond on the trail of a criminal, or a war hero coming home to his sweetheart. He might only commit 200 words to paper during a day in his studio, but he lived so many stories in his head he felt as if he’d had a productive and adventurous day.

Jake was thankful they didn’t need more money, because he knew he’d never make any as a writer. He was happy, though. When he came back to the house in the afternoons and showed his wife just how happy he was feeling these days, she agreed the caboose was the smartest purchase they’d ever made.