Like a child's handprint in the wet cement of the new patio, my camper is imbued with the spirit of modern craftsmanship. It wasn't constructed without the aid of machinery of course, but it does bear the indelible signs of humanity, as "I was here"of invisible fingerprints.
This morning I noticed the handwritten "83 5/8" in the backing of one of the curtains and I thought about all those long ago trips to the notions aisle with my mother back when she used to sew clothing. The back of the fabrics store was a veritable map room of Simplicity patterns all parchment-colored and soft-grained, covered in the inked blue rivers of design. My mother would make her selections then set about to match the plan with a place--a fabric to bring the landscape to life like a photograph brings color and definition to travels. She would mark her needle's destinations with straight pins then follow those roadways until they became proper hems and seams--little strings of completed clothing boundaries like interstates or backroads.
I keep a small state map on the paneled wall by the bathroom door of this camper with a pin marking this, our yearly "home away from home" campground. Over the years I will likely add more pins in other places, but for now there's just this one magical place to which we are drawn. And I will continue to run my fingertips over the archaeological wonder that is this 30-year-old cabin on wheels, looking for the signs that others have "been here", have left their trail of crumbs for me to follow into the woods of our shared pasts and old memories.
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