Meet “Flag”, Our Accessible RV

Adventure time for the Hearing Husband and me!  In an unprecedented move that has shocked our family and friends, we sold our house and are taking some time to figure out where we want to settle next.  In the meantime, we have downsized our living quarters to a beautiful 5^th wheel named “Flag”. 

I decided it needed a name—not only to suit its strength and personality, but to prevent our friends and family from referring to it as the ‘trailer trash holder’.   I prefer people not to use the term ‘trailer’ because of self-esteem issues (mine, not Flag’s). Call me a snob, I don’t care, but Flag is not a trailer, it’s a 5^th wheel camper, which means that the Hearing Husband and I are now campering or glamping.

We’ve done the tent thing and now we want something more out of life, like comfort.  When we drive into gorgeous provincial parks, some people who camp in tents discreetly shake their heads at us.  We just smile and wave hello, as friendly campers do, silently thinking, “Hey, good luck when the storm hits tonight and you’re floating in your sleeping bags, while we’re all comfy inside Flag, playing cards over a glass of chardonnay!”  Our goal, as we travel around North America over the next few months (punctuated with flying visits to family), is to stay in scenic provincial, state and national parks, but we’ve joined KOA just in case.  And I may eat my words, but at this point hell will freeze over before I sleep over in a Walmart parking lot.

After years of working to make our home communication-accessible, Flag is undergoing a similar makeover.  In fact, it’s almost ready for certification as an Accessible Recreational Vehicle (ARV).  The requirements are basic:

• Accessible: we must be able to get into it and I must be able to hear in it.
• Recreational: It must not be used solely for commercial purposes, i.e., selling ice cream cones out the back window.  We are semi-retired, but connecting remotely with our respective work is allowed.
• Vehicle: It must have working wheels.

Flag wasn’t designed as hearing-accessible, but it is surprisingly accommodating. The surround sound system that connects to our cellphones, music, radio and TV has ceiling speakers throughout the camper, including the bedroom, and the television has captioning.  Flag’s smaller space—its much smaller space—brings me closer to the coffee maker, microwave, cellphone and anything else that squeaks, bumps or grinds.  This proximity to sound is more problematic for the Hearing Husband.  If I get up first, it’s difficult to be quiet; the man can hear a deer rustling 20 feet away, although he can’t seem to hear me from 2 feet away—why is that, do you think?

I don’t hear outside noises, unless it’s loud, like a car driving by on a gravel road, or people yelling two campfires over.  And awake or asleep, I wouldn’t hear animals bustling about, like a raccoon crawling over the car.  I”m also immune to Flag’s little motor-y sounds which I guess is only important if they sound wrong, or if a noise that’s supposed to be happening, suddenly stops.  The Hearing Husband was standing in front of the fridge, staring at it.  “If you’re hungry, I’d be happy to open the fridge door for you,” I said.

There was an odd noise, apparently, that meant it was running on the wrong type of power (we have three—battery, electricity, and propane).  He fixed the problem, but if I were alone, I wouldn’t hear that we even had a problem. And even if I did, then what?  This stuff is foreign to me.  I never had the faintest interest in mechanics, but now it’s important, because if something goes seriously wrong with Flag, we can’t just pack up the car and go home.

I do hear things on the roof.  The first night we all stayed in Flag together (I’m including Nickie and Charlie, our cats), there was a dilly of a thunderstorm.  The cats’ ears were flat with nervousness but I loved the pounding rain and thunder—and when I didn’t want to hear it anymore, I took my hearing aids out and went to sleep.  The next day, I was writing inside and every so often I heard a thump on the roof.  I couldn’t find the source until later when Doug was outside barbecuing and a half-eaten acorn dropped on his head, delivered by a red squirrel.

And what I can’t hear, I can feel. Flag is called mobile for more than one reason.  A camper jiggles, no matter how well made or how well parked and stabilized.  You can feel any significant motion inside the camper—someone 6’6” walking, for example, or the cats playing chase.  But it’s only a slight jiggle, not unpleasant, and it helps keep me aware.  I mean, if you can’t hear, how are you supposed to know when your partner gets up to use the midnight facilities?

We are still in our first month of campering, but Flag needs a couple of communication accessories before it earns its ARV accreditation:

• A loop system to use with my hearing aids to connect to the cellphone, or when watching TV so we don’t bother other campers or attract wildlife that may happen to like The Walking Dead.
• An alerting system that is sound or motion-activated for when I’m alone at night and need to know if a bear is out there.  But good ol’ Flag would probably jiggle if bumped by a bear, and that’s a comfort to know.

Soon we’re off for a cross country trip from Toronto to Vancouver, via the American Oregon Trail route.  Thanks to mobile hotspots, cellphones and computers, you won’t even know I’m gone!