We were recently introduced at a gathering as “sojourners,” and that pleased my inner word nerd because it’s a term that isn’t used so very often, and it carries with it a sense of romanticism and history.
Also? I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever called us that before.
And then I got to wondering about wandering. What makes a sojourner different from any other type of person on the move?
Based on my travels from one online dictionary to another (see what I did there?), the meaning hinges more on the destination than on the journey — which seems odd, because the “journ” part is right there inside the word.
A sojourn is defined as a brief or temporary stay, thussojourners are people who spend a short time in one place.
That’s not an inaccurate way to describe us. Between stints as sojourners, we are travelers — or nomads, wanderers, vagabonds, itinerants, and/or peripatetics. Maybe even pilgrims or hobos, depending on our purpose, and how long it’s been since we last showered and changed clothes.
No matter what you call us, or what we call ourselves, I have a feeling that completing our 2020 Census form might be a little tricky.
I’ve taken a look at the Census Bureau’s proposed questions, and those involving residence do include “mobile home” as an option, but it’s clear from the list of responses that they mean the kind of mobile home that stays in one place. (“Hello, we’re from the government. Have you experienced an oxymoron today?”)
Anyway, I’ve lifted a few images from the document linked above, and I think you’ll see pretty quickly that in some cases, we’re just gonna have to choose whichever answer is least untrue.
And yes, we will get our Census in the mail, at our official-on-all-the-things address, just like the rest of you. So they will find us. (See Question 9 in this post.)
But depending on where we are, how much fun we’re having, and when we actually call to have our mail forwarded that month, there may be a delay…
I don’t care what anybody says. Laundromats are a gold mine of story-telling fodder.
But before I lead you down into that mine of mine, I’ll start with a little background.
One of many “You Do You” facets of RV life is that some folks go for the in-coach washer and dryer, and others don’t.
Although we’ve got dedicated hookups for them in our bedroom closet, we opted against installing our own machines, and here’s why:
We didn’t want to sacrifice the storage space, weight allowance, or power & water usage, when we can do our laundry elsewhere — in a facility that someone else has to maintain and repair.
I’ve managed to wash and dry 2-3 loads, once a week, every week since we’ve been full-timing, and it’s really not a hardship. Sometimes, a nearby friend or relative generously offers up their laundry room for a welcome freebie, but I have to admit I’ve become spoiled by the convenience of getting it all done at a laundromat in less than 2 hours, thanks to having access to multiple washers and dryers instead of just one of each.
As for the money, well, I’m not that good at math, but I can guesstimate that at an average of about $6.50/week, it costs us about $338.00/year to do our laundry.
A new set of RV machines costs about $1200.00 (source: quick glance at a few options on a single major national RV retailer’s web site).
So after nearly 3.5 years of full-time RV living, we’ve now spent about as much on coin-op as we would have on our own washer and dryer, but…
I cannot deny the added value of all these stories.
Twenty True Tales from the Laundromat? Priceless.
Author’s note: Nearly all of these posts came from my personal Facebook account. I don’t think it’s plagiarism if I copy & paste my own work, but I thought I’d better explain myself to those of you who are thinking, “Hmmmm. I’m pretty sure I’ve read this before…”