Jo-Ann Mapson

Airstream of Consciousness

Every night before I turn on my right side and hug my pillow, before the bed-dogs settle into their chosen spots, before I say my prayers, I ask my husband, “Can we please buy an Airstream trailer?”

And he always says, “No.”

I tell him, “But Steinbeck had a trailer. Look how good his writing career turned out. And we have four dogs to his one so maybe my career could be four times better.”

“You are not Steinbeck,” he says. “You do not need a trailer.”

“Why not?”

“Think of all the junk you have. Your saddles, your clothes, your knickknacks, not to mention 24,000 books. That cannot fit into a trailer.”

“But we could have the garage sale of a lifetime,” I say. “We could make a ton of gas money by selling everything and then we could drive all over the world less encumbered and be way more creative. I could write American literature and you could paint in the plein-air style.”

He sighs. “Baby, we have four dogs, two of which hate each other. Picture you, me, and the dogs and your stuff in a trailer a third of the size of this room. Not a pretty sight.”

While I lay there thinking up a really good answer, he turns on his right side because otherwise he snores, and the bed-dogs rearrange themselves. And then he goes right to sleep and doesn’t wake up until morning. It was always thus.

Airstream trailers, also known as Land Yachts and Silver Bullets, fascinate me. They are distinctly different. Aluminum, rounded at the corners, makes up the exterior. Each piece is riveted. Inside, every little thing fits perfectly, folded away in the daytime, and pulled out at night. The shine of them screams out “Spaceship!” and they have cool names, like the Clipper, the Globe Trotter, the Ambassador, and the Safari. In my Airstream book there are photos of them touring the Great Pyramids, being lifted by crane onto a huge ship, and this dorky 1950’s scientist inside one examining the insulation as if that could protect us from nuclear war. Actually, I hate camping. I like showers, cool clean sheets, and room service. I’m not even sure why I want a trailer. Maybe it’s just the idea of becoming one of the fans of Wally Byam, inventor and traveler, caravanning in Airstreams around the world. Singapore to Lisbon. Afghanistan, Egypt, and Uganda, Cairo, India, Moscow, places that sounded so magical when I was a kid, and put my finger on the globe.

Whenever I see one on the road, I leap up from the passenger seat and sing, “Airstream!” and Stewart turns up the radio.

When Gretel Ehrlich was here in May, I was surprised to hear that she doesn’t teach. She explained that she saves all her energy for her work, and her adventures. Her books are miracles to me. Struck by lightning, three cardiac arrests, and the death of her fiancé at age 30. She doesn’t flinch from bearing witness. Her words temper and teach, reminding me that our tenure on Earth is brief. Those who put forth the effort it takes to write of such things accurately and poignantly, have done a service that is not easy, but matters, and will live on.

When I was unpublished, green, and struggling to find my voice, I couldn’t afford to attend writers’ conferences. Their names sounded like gold—Breadloaf, Sewanee, Squaw Valley, Yaddo, Centrum, the McDowell Colony, and Cottages at Hedgebrook. By the time I had enough money to attend, I was published, and I felt awkward using up a spot that another writer deserved and needed more than me. Even when I began to attend as a lecturer, I still wanted to sit in the audience. I want to assume an alternate identity and take Sherry Simpson’s nonfiction workshop, but I know she would march me out of there in five seconds flat. But the thing is, where does a writer go to keep challenging herself on not a lot of time and money?

I’ve thumbed the pages of my Airstream book until the corners are soft and floppy. On page 129, there is a color photo of what looks like a whole village of trailers, their shiny bums classy in a retro kind of way. The original Lifetime guarantee reads: “Anything that could possibly be our fault will be repaired without charge at the factory for as long as you own your Airstream.”

Airstreamers never say goodbye at the end of a trip, but are content with a wave and wistful “See you down the road,” the copy reads, and I think, hmm, it’s almost my birthday and I know just what I am going to ask for. It’s silver, it lasts forever, and four small dogs fit inside of it.

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