Life Without a Snow Shovel
Life Without a Snow Shovel
By Kris Downey
In 2014, Hubs and I were in the tenth year of our ten-year plan, and shockingly, the plan had basically worked out. As planned, we were empty nesters, and also, as planned, we would be ditching the big house.
It was time to decide what was next for us. That meant lots of conversations about where and how we wanted to live.
Hubs was clear about one thing. He declared, more than once—loudly, publicly, and with backup spreadsheets—we would never live in California. Too expensive. Too crowded. Too many kale devotees.
Of course, I nodded. We’ve been at this married thing for decades. We both know the drill.
He made this declaration regularly right up until the snow in our hometown of Toledo, Ohio, was described as biblical on the national news. That was when we decided to skedaddle.
Our version of skedaddle was to sell the big house, downsize to the extreme, move into a 40-foot motorhome, and hit the road. The road didn’t immediately land us in California. With grandkids in Maine and Ohio, and our youngest in California, we spent three years traversing the US from coast to coast.
We averaged about 15k miles a year. On travel days, my role was to sit in the comfy passenger seat with our Toy Poodle, Rigby, in my lap. She’d spend the day snoozing, and I’d spend the day quizzing Hubs about geography and wildlife. He did surprisingly well. He credits seventh grade, apparently his best year in school. I was also the navigator and frequently forgot to pay attention to the road signs. Thank goodness for GPS.
Hubs’s role was to channel his inner truck driver and maneuver our 40-foot rig, with our Chevy Equinox in tow. No easy task. He managed with impressive skill, clenched teeth, and a death grip on the steering wheel. Clearly, I had the better end of the deal.
We became card-carrying snowbirds. I loved living on the road. We’d spend the winter months in the Palm Springs area, and as soon as it started to heat up, or the news started talking about rattlesnakes, we’d head back east.
Our travels took us to some high-end campgrounds with more amenities than a Four Seasons Resort. We also camped in fields, gravel lots, driveways, and a service bay at a truck stop. We were never sure where we’d land. That was part of the fun.
Three years in, my driver, Hubs, hit a wall — not literally —but he had reached his limit. He began campaigning to get off the road. Living in 350 square feet was getting to him. He wanted to live in a house again and, believe it or not, the only place he’d consider was Southern California.
SoCal had three big things in its favor, big enough to shut down his spreadsheets. Number one, and the most important, our youngest, single at the time, lived in the LA area. We could be close but not too close. Number two, during our winters here, he’d found a group of guys to play golf with. That meant he had people to talk to besides just me (a plus for me, too). And number three, the only snow here is on the mountain tops. No shovel required.
So here we are living in our little house in a 55+ community in the desert of SoCal, and loving it. Hubs occasionally pulls out his spreadsheets to remind me that it’s still too expensive and too crowded, but he is happy we no longer own a snow shovel.
He also wants to be sure I remember he’s still boycotting kale. How could I forget?
California has won us over. No more ten-year plans, we’re not going anywhere anytime soon.
Follow Kris on Substack
By Kris Downey
In 2014, Hubs and I were in the tenth year of our ten-year plan, and shockingly, the plan had basically worked out. As planned, we were empty nesters, and also, as planned, we would be ditching the big house.
It was time to decide what was next for us. That meant lots of conversations about where and how we wanted to live.
Hubs was clear about one thing. He declared, more than once—loudly, publicly, and with backup spreadsheets—we would never live in California. Too expensive. Too crowded. Too many kale devotees.
Of course, I nodded. We’ve been at this married thing for decades. We both know the drill.
He made this declaration regularly right up until the snow in our hometown of Toledo, Ohio, was described as biblical on the national news. That was when we decided to skedaddle.
Our version of skedaddle was to sell the big house, downsize to the extreme, move into a 40-foot motorhome, and hit the road. The road didn’t immediately land us in California. With grandkids in Maine and Ohio, and our youngest in California, we spent three years traversing the US from coast to coast.
We averaged about 15k miles a year. On travel days, my role was to sit in the comfy passenger seat with our Toy Poodle, Rigby, in my lap. She’d spend the day snoozing, and I’d spend the day quizzing Hubs about geography and wildlife. He did surprisingly well. He credits seventh grade, apparently his best year in school. I was also the navigator and frequently forgot to pay attention to the road signs. Thank goodness for GPS.
Hubs’s role was to channel his inner truck driver and maneuver our 40-foot rig, with our Chevy Equinox in tow. No easy task. He managed with impressive skill, clenched teeth, and a death grip on the steering wheel. Clearly, I had the better end of the deal.
We became card-carrying snowbirds. I loved living on the road. We’d spend the winter months in the Palm Springs area, and as soon as it started to heat up, or the news started talking about rattlesnakes, we’d head back east.
Our travels took us to some high-end campgrounds with more amenities than a Four Seasons Resort. We also camped in fields, gravel lots, driveways, and a service bay at a truck stop. We were never sure where we’d land. That was part of the fun.
Three years in, my driver, Hubs, hit a wall — not literally —but he had reached his limit. He began campaigning to get off the road. Living in 350 square feet was getting to him. He wanted to live in a house again and, believe it or not, the only place he’d consider was Southern California.
SoCal had three big things in its favor, big enough to shut down his spreadsheets. Number one, and the most important, our youngest, single at the time, lived in the LA area. We could be close but not too close. Number two, during our winters here, he’d found a group of guys to play golf with. That meant he had people to talk to besides just me (a plus for me, too). And number three, the only snow here is on the mountain tops. No shovel required.
So here we are living in our little house in a 55+ community in the desert of SoCal, and loving it. Hubs occasionally pulls out his spreadsheets to remind me that it’s still too expensive and too crowded, but he is happy we no longer own a snow shovel.
He also wants to be sure I remember he’s still boycotting kale. How could I forget?
California has won us over. No more ten-year plans, we’re not going anywhere anytime soon.
Follow Kris on Substack