Bettie | Bondage This Is Your Mothers Last Resort Portable

You think I’m alone out here. I’m not. There’s a whole subculture of women over sixty in vans, RVs, and converted buses. We call ourselves the “Solo Silver Caravan.” We meet at campgrounds. We share meals. We fix each other’s solar wiring. We have a group chat on Signal where we share safe parking spots and the best BLTs in Nevada.

Last month, a woman named Jean from Tulsa taught me how to change a tire. A month before that, a retired librarian from Vermont gave me her leftover prescription muscle relaxers when my sciatica flared up. We are not tragic. We are not homeless. We are home-full, but our home moves.

Let me say the keyword again, because I know how SEO works (yes, I Googled it): Bettie, this is your mother’s last resort portable lifestyle and entertainment.

Why do those words go together? Because entertainment is no longer something that happens to you on a fixed screen in a fixed room at a fixed time. Entertainment is now: bettie bondage this is your mothers last resort portable

Last week, I watched Casablanca while cooking pasta in a state park in New Mexico. The stars came out right as Bogie said, “We’ll always have Paris.” I cried. Then I had a glass of boxed wine (don’t judge—boxed wine is just wine that admits it’s camping). Then I called you. You didn’t answer. You were probably at book club. That’s fine. I left a voicemail.

That voicemail is why you’re reading this, isn’t it?

Bettie, this is your mother’s last resort. I need you to hear me: I am not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing this because the alternative was sitting in that blue house, watching the mail come, waiting for a phone call that wouldn’t come because your father is dead and you have your own life. You think I’m alone out here

You have a family. A career. A Peloton. I have a van and a portable projector and a stubborn refusal to become a ghost before I’m dead.

I know you worry. I know you told your therapist that you feel “responsible” for me. Unsubscribe from that feeling, honey. I raised you to be independent. Now let me demonstrate.

Here’s what I propose: Next month, I’ll be in Flagstaff. I have a spot reserved at a KOA with real showers and a pool. Come for a weekend. No husband, no kids, no work phone. Just you and me and a portable DVD player loaded with every movie we used to watch when you were home sick from school. I’ll make my famous popcorn (coconut oil, extra salt). We’ll sleep under a real comforter in the van. And in the morning, we’ll watch the sunrise hit the San Francisco Peaks while I make pour-over coffee from a portable grinder. Last week, I watched Casablanca while cooking pasta

You’ll see. It’s not sad. It’s not a last resort in the way you think.

It’s a resort. It’s just portable.

I sold the dining room table. I gave away the china. I donated twenty-seven boxes of books to the library. I kept: one cast-iron skillet, one good knife, three cashmere sweaters, your father’s wedding ring (around my neck), and a photograph of you at age six holding a frog. Everything else, Bettie, was a weight. You don’t realize how heavy a house is until you leave it.