The "Precious Moments" Crisis

Since we were going to be near Carthage, Missouri and I knew my sister loved Precious Moments figurines, we decided to pay the chapel and home of the precious little dust catchers a visit. They basically make me gag, but for her, I would make the supreme sacrifice! Besides, I needed an appropriate gift for a young friend just graduating from nursing school, and I thought I might find something there.

Well, as hubby started to turn into the parking lot, I pointed out in my nicest voice that the big rigs seemed to be parking across the street. My most pleasant voice wasn’t heard above the testosterone drumming in his loins as he sensed a challenge. So he turned into the vehicle lot. Then I spotted some RVs at the left end of the parking lot and suggested that he go that way. But again, he no can hear wife’s sweet suggestion. So he plowed straight down the middle row of the lot, thinking he could turn at the other end and get to the outer edge of the lot.

He was wrong! We got to the end of the row before he realized it was a dead-end. Not only that, the engine died at just that moment. No amount of cranking could get it started again, so he decided to unhook the car and have me park it while he continued trying to crank the motorhome. He hoped to be able to get it started and back it out of the parking lot, with his darling little spouse directing, of course.

After a couple more futile attempts to start the engine, I finally hiked into the gift shop to find a pay phone to call our emergency road service. As I came out, a security guard came rushing up frantically signaling hubby to get that giant boxcar out of his parking lot. I explained that we couldn’t possibly move it until someone got there to start it again, and that meantime, I could direct anyone around us whose way we might be blocking.

The guard was seemingly on the verge of a mental breakdown or cardiac arrest, and he wanted us to move, NOW! I tried to calm him down while I explained the facts. A horrific picture of myself having to direct traffic while also giving him CPR (which I had recently learned, but failed the certification test) wound through my brain. Things did not look good for the security guard! Still, there was nothing we could do except wait to be rescued.

Long story short: the road service truck showed up, they took a look under the hood and discovered the problem—a ruptured gas line—and within a few minutes we were ready to roll again. Not one single motorist had needed to be directed around the motorhome during that time. I guess they were all still inside, catatonic and frozen in place after gaping at thousands of creepy little figurines.

I can’t say how the security guy survived the catastrophe. When we left he was still pacing up and down, wiping his brow and wringing his hands. He was so distressed, he was absolutely no help to us, nor could he have been to anyone else who might need help. In fact, he appeared not to notice that our motorhome was no longer blocking the lane.

Hubby finally got the rig parked and I ran into the shop and grabbed a couple of precious little memory makers off the shelf, paid for them, and thought how the last thing I wanted to do was to spend money on the little dust catchers. I didn’t even bother to check out the Chapel, which is the showcase of the place. I just wanted out of there—and let’s just say we’ve never been back. And my memories of the place are not so precious!

We would have many more mishaps before we managed to get this RVing thing right.