“The Merry Miler,” by Pia Z. Ehrhardt

When I was in Grade Ten, we moved suddenly from Alberta, Canada to Mississippi, driving the Merry Miler across wide, empty provinces, and traffic-filled states. There were six of us: my younger sister Nance and me, our parents, and two tiny new sisters.

My mother scouted out the next RV Park in a giant guidebook. She and my father listened to serious music on the radio. They were both musicians.

At night Nance and I sauntered around the grounds, thinking we were brand new. When we found boys our age we skipped the shyness because even if you never saw him again, hitting it off was better than standing there, tongue-tied and wishing. The next morning Nance and I would beg for a later departure, another sortie, but our father would start the engine and we’d ride off like cowboys on fresh horses.

Our mother kept things up in The Merry Miler like she did at home. There were petunias in a vase she’d super glued to the Formica table, fluffy towels in the water closet, Irish linen curtains on the windows. Continue reading →