The “Thingies”

It was our first time working from the Airstream, and I was nervous.

At the last minute, I had traded our little Verizon hotspot for a high-end cellular router, the kind of thing that would normally be installed on a city bus or a train in order to provide Wi-Fi to its passengers. They’re expensive, powerful, and not really geared toward non-commercial consumers like us. A multi-hour internet outage at our home a few weeks earlier made it abundantly clear that the Verizon hotspot would never provide enough bandwidth for both Jill and me to work simultaneously. I bought the Peplink router with minimal research or knowledge, wincing at the $1,200 price tag, convinced it was a necessary ingredient for reliable internet access while working from the road.

When we pulled into Lake Buchanan RV Resort (then known as Big Chief RV Resort) in June 2022, it was only our third trip in the Airstream. Our previous two trips combined only accounted for three nights on the road. Our current trip would be a record—eight nights, including a full work-week. We deliberately selected an RV park that was only about an hour from home. If our attempt to work from the trailer failed for whatever reason, we could abort the whole experiment and return home without serious consequence.

Looking back, I still don’t quite understand what we did to attract the attention of our neighbors. We’ve now spent over 350 nights in our Airstream, and I can’t recall ever looking at another RVer thinking “what a couple of noobs—I better go give them advice.” Of course, back in 2022, we were a couple of noobs! I’m sure it took longer than average to get our rig parked, disconnect our truck, and set up camp. Being June in Texas, it was also much hotter outside than on our previous excursions and I was eager to test the capabilities of our air conditioning system. There was little shade protecting us from the sun and with peak temperatures over 100 degrees, inadequate cooling would mean packing up and heading home early.

Immediately after disconnecting the truck and cutting the engine, I extracted our 50-amp power cable from the bumper storage compartment, connected it to the power pedestal, then headed inside to the trailer’s HVAC control panel. I selected “Cool” and awaited an onslaught of icy cold air. Instead, I was greeted with a clicking sound and a generic error code.

A wave of panic accompanied a depressing thought: was the air conditioning on our brand-new Airstream defective? I stared at the control panel, trying to understand the problem. After a moment, I decided to double-check the pedestal. Maybe the breaker was off? Maybe our surge protector wasn’t working?

I walked out the door, rounded the back of the trailer, and crouched down in front of the pedestal. I examined the breaker, the plug, and our surge protector. Everything looked fine. It was only when I stood back up that my eyes registered the female end of the 50-amp cable resting idly in the dirt, directly below the Airstream’s power inlet. I immediately erupted into a full-throttled belly laugh, mortified at my stupidity. I never finished plugging the damn thing in. GAHHH!

As soon as I fully connected the cable, our twin air conditioners roared to life and began injecting delightfully frigid air into the trailer. Our first ‘setback’ had been resolved! Jill and I shared a good, hearty laugh at my moment of nervous mindlessness, then decided we deserved a break. We sat at our site’s picnic bench, absorbing the RV park’s lakeside environment, excitedly talking about the workweek ahead. We were close enough to the shoreline that we might even be able to go stand-up paddleboarding each morning before work!

When I detected the man walking in our direction, I initially assumed that we’d ignorantly violated some sacred rule or custom that seasoned RVers would take for granted. I had no clue what that might be, but I readied myself to offer penance for whatever sins we had committed. He was an older guy, probably in his late 60s, heavyset, disheveled, and walked with a pronounced limp, like a weary pirate.

“Hi there,” I said.

“Hello. So we’ve been watching you guys get set up,” he gestured to a trailer on the other side of the road, maybe four spaces down from us. A woman sat in a chair under their awning, staring in our direction like a mannequin in a storefront window. “My wife wanted me to make sure you understood that these thingies need to go down.” An outstretched index finger gestured toward the underside of our trailer.

“Thingies?” I asked. “…you mean the stabilizer jacks?”

“Yeah. Those things need to be in the down position.” He spoke slowly, so we’d be sure to understand.

I suppressed a chuckle. “Yeah, I know all about the thingies. We’re just taking a break.” Of all the things required in order to set up camp, lowering the stabilizer jacks ranks among the very least important. Did they watch me struggle to connect the power and decide the two of us must be in desperate need of basic advice?

We spent the next several minutes politely exchanging small talk. Yes, we were brand new to RVing. Yes, our truck and Airstream are also brand new. Yes, we both still have full-time jobs. After explaining that we worked in the software industry, he remarked that “RVing must be especially hard for a couple of pencil-pushers.” It was a well-intentioned attempt at humor. We nodded and smiled, unsure how to respond to his backhanded assessment. Eventually he returned to his wife’s side, where they continued to gaze in our direction without any attempt to conceal their preoccupation. The following morning, when I raised our shades and looked out the window, I saw an empty dirt patch where their trailer had been the evening before. They had departed early in the morning, never to be seen or heard from again.

Back in those days, Jill and I must have radiated newbie vibes like unshielded uranium at a science fair. Seasoned know-it-alls regularly sniffed us out and lobbed unsolicited advice our way like monkeys throwing poop at zoo patrons. Fortunately, this was the exception rather than the norm. Most people we encountered treated us like, you know, normal human beings. They’d say things like “Hi! How are you?” And we’d chat about our rigs and experiences and where we were from. Sometimes the conversation would veer into an area of RVing that Jill and I were unfamiliar with and we’d ask questions and learn. After parting ways, we’d say to ourselves, “those were cool people, I’m so glad we had a chance to meet them!” But we have never—not even once—said to ourselves, “Thank God that dude told us to put down our thingies!” Because while everyone appreciates a knowledgeable friend, absolutely no one likes being patronized by random strangers.

We like this story because it reminds us of what it was like to be brand spankin’ new to the RV game. It’s worth remembering that we all had to start somewhere. Unless a newbie is on the verge of injury or damage, I’m convinced the best way to provide a helping hand is to just say “Hi! How are you?” and see where the conversation takes you.

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Note: Obviously, I don’t have a precise word-for-word recollection of the dialogue the three of us exchanged that day. I’ve done my best to recreate the spirit of what transpired. That said, the guy definitely referred to our stabilizer jacks as “thingies” and did indeed casually refer to us as “a couple of pencil pushers.” To this day, we still refer to our stabilizer jacks as “thingies”. 🤣