I was four years old when I saw my first motorhome. It was huge. A one-piece rv, as opposed to the van-front with overhang. Probably over thirty feet. Our neighbors owned it, and invited us over for a walk-through. I was in love. Not only with their son who was my age, but with this home on wheels. As a matter of fact, I loved the motorhome more, and for far, far, longer. It was a home on wheels. You were home wherever you went. It was so neat and tidy with a place for everything and everything in its place. Hungry? Cook on the tiny stove with food you took from the tiny fridge. Entertainment? Tiny TV! Tired? Your tiny bed awaited!
It took me thirty eight years to realize the dream of owning my own motorhome. It wasn't so big. It certainly wasn't new. But it had a tiny stove (working) and a tiny fridge (non-working) and space for a tiny TV (no TV) and a tiny bed (slightly musty.)
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