ON GEORGE ELIOT, LOLA, AND MASLOW'S HIERARCHY OF NEEDS

Mary Anne Evans, Pen Name George Eliot

I spent more than a little time yesterday thinking about George Eliot.  George Eliot was the pen name of English novelist Mary Anne Evans (Silas Marner, The Mill on the Floss).  She died about my age, made difficult life choices, wrote beautifully about psychological truths.  She once said "It is never too late to be what you might have been."  That is my life inspiration, at the moment.  Because I married young, had a long marriage with my best friend, Ted, became a widow, feel lost most of the time.  I often feel I am searching for the who I might have been.  I'm searching for myself, alone.

I recently acquired a new companion, Lola.  Lola is a good follower, never a complaint, and she's all mine.  She waits for me to figure out what I want to do in our relationship and she doesn't say a word.  I usually don't go in for the passive type, but down deep, Lola is complicated and worth understanding.  Lola is my teardrop camper.  She (or maybe he?) and I  met only recently, and, up until yesterday, we had only one adventure together.  Yesterday we embarked on a two-day solace and photography adventure that awaited us, three hours away, in Northwestern Whatcom County, Silver Lake Park.  The same day, we came home.   The long drive home made me think of George Eliot.

Was it a failure?

Prepping for a trip with a trailer is thought-intense work.  There is physical work of packing a lot of Lola gear, Bridget gear, dog gear.  My dogs, Oliver and Miss Kitty -- who are in a co-dependency relationship with me -- stare and tense up a lot.  I stare and tense up a lot.  It gets done, and I'm ready to tow.

Towing Lola was easier than our first trip, although the low-level terror thoughts of a jack-knife or sway were homesteading my brain this trip, too.  We arrived.  I backed Lola into the camping spot successfully, and then a major snag caught us.  Water and utilities were far, far from the only level spot on the site.  I tried for an hour, along with a generous camper next door, to level Lola near the utilities.  Not happening. 

Silver Lake Park is a passive park, so non-reservation campers can pick a spot and pay for it in a self-pay box.  I reserved my spot in advance.  But when I couldn't make my reserved spot work for me, there was no one in charge to help me sort it out.  Whatcom County had not staffed this park on the day I was there, so efforts to find a ranger or host camper were futile.  I decided to move myself to a level spot, and pay using my reservation paperwork, with an explanation.  I found another, level spot.  By now, I was away from home six hours. 

Neighbors at my new spot came home from an excursion of some sort.  Within minutes, a skinny, tall man with grey hair, moved his two camp chairs to my property line, sat in one of them, and took up a gawk show of me, my dogs, my camper, my trips to my car and back, and so forth.  Periodically, he would  spit into an imaginary spittoon, located on my site.  When I said, "Hello," he didn't say a word.  I didn't want to agitate a weird stranger, and I already knew there was no one with authority who could help me.  My cell phone was worthless. 

For about an hour, I sat with my dogs, in my trailer, figuring out the net economic loss of selling Lola.  I gave up trying to be where I want to be.  Basically, I was thinking about how frightened I was, although I do travel with copious amounts of pepper spray.   Looking back, I think my rational mind was only available to me for hitching, towing, backing up Lola, unhitching, utility connection.  The rest of me was about seven, maybe eight years old -- not knowing what to do, other than permitting my life, my heart, my mind to have a blow-out garage sale.  Surrender.  Pull out.  Abandon.  Give up.

The door to my grief opened.  When that happens, I feel abandoned.  I'm too young to shut myself in.  I married young, and raised a family young, and was widowed at fifty-four.  Not too late for a rebuild, I sometimes think.  I retired young enough to go in a new direction, dammit.  Camping in a teardrop, writing, photography, family -- this is the life I'm trying to build.  And somebody was staring at me, spitting at me.  Maybe he is from a culture, not my own, and this is how he greets.  Even compassion wasn't helping me.  My mind was tangled.

It would take a half-hour to get hitched back up, uncamp myself.  I had half an hour to decide, as it was going to be dark in four hours.  I don't take Lola on the road in the dark.  I decided to leave and go home. 

On the road, my anger targets included:  Fate. Whatcom County. Me. Ted. Man with chair and spit.  Me. Whatcom County.  Me.  Of course, my thoughts of George soothed me.  Calling daughter, Caroline and son, Andy soothed me.  Anger drove along beside me and wouldn't shut up.

For a few minutes, towing Lola home, I again contemplated selling her and giving up.  But I'm still curious enough, hungry enough for a particular kind of life, stubborn enough perhaps -- I'm enough to keep trying.  My mind flopped around quite joltingly all the way home, and kept landing on "keep trying."  

I recently hired someone to gravel in part of my yard for parking Lola. I now realize that the gravel used was 5/8 minus that had been washed.  Unwashed 5/8 minus gravel sets up, but washed gravel doesn't.  Backing up into my own new gravel driveway is skiddy.  This morning, I called a materials guy I trust and he advised adding a top layer of unwashed 5/8 minus, to try and fix it.  My mind is focused on gravel for my Lola parking spot.  This is more evidence that I don't intend to give up.

Andy came by this morning to check on me.  He pointed out that Ted took care of all my protection needs, and now I have been harshly confronted with loss, and the annoyance and fear associated with being my own body guard, my own advocate, my own everything.  "Dad used to take care of the lower levels of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs for you, Mom.  You always got to be an actualized you, without having to deal with the bottom rungs."  He was referring to the lower level needs we all have, such as safety and security.  None of us can be fully our true selves if we are just trying to survive.  I have to admit that I was protected and felt secure when Ted was alive.  I wasn't worried about survival. 

This experience is another lesson for me.   There is still an awful lot of grief and loss for me to deal with. Maybe there always will be, and it will manifest in fear, retreat, despair.  I sometimes think about giving up on my dreams in defeat.  My actions tell me that I'm still a dreamer.  I'm not ready to dump Lola.  I owe Whatcom County a piece of my mind about utility hookups and their relationship with the level of the campsite, and about charging $35 a night for a utility campsite with no phone service or discernable way to find help and protection.  A lot of solo women want to camp, and we're willing to pay for a safe, utility site.  I can hear George Eliot:  "You go girl!"

In September, I meet up with a group of people who all have teardrops, in Deception Pass State Park.  I am hopeful.

Inherently Friendly and Enabling, T@B Teardrop Camper