- no pictures as I want to respect Samantha's privacy -
One day I rode Gracie three miles south of us to check out the free 14-day camp area there in case we have to move after April 15 when our time runs out where we are. There weren't many people there, usually never is. That is why I like Road Runner. Tooling around I was surprised to see Samantha was still there. I met her a couple of months earlier, same spot. She has a ginger cat named Sprout and I saw it wandering around. If you have a cat you can expect me to come and see it.
So that is how we met.
Samantha is from Georgia and I'd guess to be early sixties in age. Like many women I meet out here on the road she is running away from her dysfunctional family. "I'm thinking about changing my name to make it even more difficult for them to find me." She is living out of her black Nissan Cube and has next to nothing for a camp except a camp chair sitting outside. She also has a little dog.
I stopped to visit - ten feet apart.
She was getting ready to go into town for some ice. I told her about my recent foray into town, the harrowing experience in Family Dollar and the kind lady who gifted me a mask. "Yeah, I wish I had one. All I have is this bandanna" she pointed to around her neck. "Ever since I have been out here in the desert I quit wearing my bra. I'm going to cut off one of the cups and use it for a mask and cover that with the bandanna." No, I didn't laugh. I thought it a good idea. Even just what that lady gave me, your typical dust mask, isn't ideal but it's a hell of a lot better than nothing. I'll cover mine with a bandanna also. I was even thinking of sticking an antibacterial wipe between the mask and bandanna. If nothing else it shows that we are serious so just stay back and don't invade our space!
I think it had been quite awhile since Samantha had last talked with someone. She was just going off rapid fire with stories and things to say. I wish I had a recording for it was all good material for my journal. I too was once guilty of that. A couple years back a lady, Lana was her name, came over to our camp. We got to talking and later on I realized it was if I had been vaccinated by a phonograph needle. I apologized to her the next day for being a little Chatty-Cathy. "I just haven't talked to anyone for weeks and weeks. She laughed and thought it cute.
Since then I've tried to curb my enthusiasm when meeting someone after a long dry spell.