My dad just hit the road pulling a tear-drop trailer. He built it by hand. A tear-drop trailer isn’t called that because you cry at how expensive it is. It’s the shape. Like an aerodynamic tear as you tow it down the road, off to some great adventure where you sleep in it under the stars with a little window and some kind of marine-grade battery running your computer. Because stars need Netflix.
And, let’s return to this: He built it … WITH HIS OWN HANDS!
Pretty cool.
More impressive: It didn’t fall apart as he hauled it up the interstate on a trek to drive my sister from Tampa to meet up with her boyfriend in Virginia. He parked at a lake in Georgia and sent photos. The sides didn’t seem to be shearing off. The roof wasn’t peeling away like the lid of a sardine can. It hadn’t hopped the hitch and plowed into a pine tree or dumped its contents all over the interstate before becoming a viral video titled, “Dude’s trailer just threw itself up.”
Remarkable.
“How’s it riding and working out?” I texted after getting a photo of a lake sunset and my sister enjoying it in a foldup chair.
“Beautifully!” he wrote back. Translation: I thought it was going to hop the hitch and plow into a pine tree. BUT IT DIDN’T!!!
Huh. That’s pretty impressive. The ingenuity. The craftsmanship. The sense of liberation and adventure. The gumption to make it work. That it looks good and is functional. And was built with his own HANDS!
Huh. This was all occurring to me Sunday morning as my hands just finished Googling: “Best bath scrubby gentle sensitive no scratchy.”
Dad: Built camper. Son: Looking for soft bath scrubby.
It was not my proudest moment. A zero on the macho scale. A blow to my Thompson psyche. My shoulders drooped in shame.
Maybe I need to step it up and get an expensive hobby. Maybe build a canoe out of a fallen tree. Or a real airplane with craft-store balsawood.
The trailer was based on plans in a book that my brother peer-pressured him into getting. My dad is in his late 70s and still susceptible to peer pressure from his youngest son. It is why there is a half-built motorcycle in his workshop and a little sailboat being fiber-glassed in the yard. The lesson? Don’t accept late-night phone calls from my brother. Else you might have a tear-drop trailer following you down the road.
My brother is like this, too. He has a workshop full of vintage British motor bikes in various stages of building and rebuilding and bleeding his wallet dry. He orders rare parts from private sellers in the UK and even races these bikes in death-defying off-road races. Why? Because … well … one might break. And then he can start the whole building process over again.
He builds outdoor toy trains with enthusiasts and lays down tracks in far-away parks where they pretend it’s all for the kids. But we all know they just like to watch them chug by. He studies satellite maps and old historical books so he can trek out into the woods looking for what he hopes will be archaeological wonders. Oh, and he plans to build his own tear-drop trailer.
Me? Well, I got the bath scrubby thing going on. And that is consuming LOTS of time. (You know, it’s got to be just the right one. Eco-friendly. Won’t be a hive for bacteria. Soft on my skin, but some exfoliation. Got to get the right balance!)
Needless to say, I’m always getting left in the dust by these two.
But I have no interest in any of it. Hobbies are those things that people do when they have too much time or money on their hands. Or in absence of those, two working hands that don’t feel like doing dishes.
I think I’ve always been too practical. Too pragmatic. Too unmoved by building something simply to see if I can.
Typical conversation with my brother:
Him: Isn’t it cool?!?
Me: No. What does it do? Why did you build it?
Him: Because I could. Because it needed to be built. Because the universe screamed, “YOU BUILD NOW!!!” Why are you so practical?!?
Me: I’m not … now let me go do some dishes.
I have pet-projects. They’re just more subdued: I’m using the principles of feng shui to arrange my bottles of bourbon on the bar. I’m plucking yellowing leaves off my milkweed plants to keep them healthy for the butterflies. I asked for a recipe book on the Mediterranean diet for Christmas so I can put it on a shelf and never try any of them. I’m thinking I might start wearing more snazzy socks.
BIG stuff!!!
And because my pride is now wounded, I’m thinking I might even wire up my existing ceiling fans with remote controls. Yeah! Huh? Big time! It is both cool, impractical and even dangerous. It requires climbing into the sweltering attic where if I don’t die from heat exhaustion, the ancient wiring will surely fry me to a crisp.
Sure, it’s no tear-drop trailer, but I can do it with MY own hands. And maybe even get a viral video. It will be titled: “My electrocuted husband falls through ceiling while re-wiring fan.” Or maybe I’ll just get myself that exfoliating eco-friendly bath scrubby. It did say it’s gentle.