Florida Bound Not Me

So my cousin from Washington decides she’s gonna move to Florida.
You know—land of sunshine, palm trees… and apparently bad decisions.

She buys this old motorhome. And when I say old, I mean seasoned. Like, this thing remembers when Elvis was still skinny.

She loads it up—her son, his wife, their six kids, her daughter, six dogs… and surprise! Her daughter-in-law goes, “Oh by the way, I’m pregnant.” Next thing you know—bam—there’s a newborn onboard.

At this point, it’s not a road trip. It’s a circus caravan. Ringling Bros, but with less clowns and more duct tape.

Now the RV itself? Disaster. The ceiling is sagging from a water leak. She was “assured it was fixed.”
Sure—except now it rains INSIDE. Right over the bed. Romantic, right? Nothing like waking up in the middle of a thunderstorm indoors.

The bumper? Nearly ripped clean off at the gas station. It’s hanging by a thread, just flapping in the wind. Now every time they drive by, the bumper waves at people.
“Hi there! Just another part falling off, don’t mind me!”

So they hit the road.

Day one—the fuel pump dies. A friend comes out, replaces it, and duct tapes the fender. Folks, when your RV is being held together with duct tape… that’s not transportation. That’s a Pinterest project.

They limp it all the way to my property—I’ve got an RV hookup. I tell them, “Why don’t you just stay here? You’ve got electricity, water, safety.”

They go, “Nope, we’re headed to Florida or bust.”
Spoiler alert: it was bust.

They make it to Arkansas—and the transmission goes out. Stranded. Rest area.

I call them up. I say, “Hey, let me come get you after work.”

They go, “No, we’re fine. We’re just waiting for someone to stop and help.”

Really? What is this, 1952? Ain’t nobody stopping at a rest area to help a broke-down RV. Everyone’s got cell phones and trust issues.

Day two—I check in. They’re still at the rest area. I say, “Seriously, I’ll come get you. I’m two hours away.”

They go, “No, don’t bother. My daughter’s coming after work.”
“She’s only six hours away.”

Six hours! I’m like, “What math are you people using?!”

Day three—my sister calls me. She says, “We’re headed back to Oklahoma. C is following us in her car, picking up the parts as they fall off.”

I’m picturing her driving behind them with a basket like it’s a parade float: hubcaps, fenders, dreams—all clattering into the trunk.

And that bumper? Still waving at people. Like it’s running for office.
“Vote for me, 2024—keeping families stranded since day one!”

Finally JoDee asks me, “Can you come get me?”

I’m like, “Oh NOW you want me to? What happened to Florida?”

Bound for Florida? Not a chance.
They barely made it past the Arkansas Welcome Center.


That RV didn’t take them to Florida. It took them on a three-day tour of denial. Honestly, the only thing holding that trip together… was duct tape and stubbornness.

And maybe the bumper, waving goodbye the whole way. 

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