Airwalking in the 'Hood

A few times a week, I lace up my walking shoes, plug in my iPod earbuds, and go for a walk. I live in a very average suburban neighborhood with sidewalks and streetlights. Nothing too special. There are trees and parks, and sometimes pretty yards to look at, but I get bored easily trudging around the neighborhood. House, house, house, strip of grass, barking dog, house, house, house, ooh a neat mailbox, house, house, house…

Over the years, I’ve learned that the best way to keep myself motivated on these ho-hum walks is to visit the neighborhood Airstreams. I have mapped and charted every Airstream trailer within a three mile radius of my home. Now when I go for a walk, I just choose North, South, East, or West and then set off to check on the welfare of the 6 trailers on my route. I call it my airwalk.

Two of my airwalk Airstreams are brand spankin’ new and you can tell their owners are proud Airstream owners because their trailers are backed into primo parking spots in the front yard where they can gaze adoringly at them out the front window. Sometimes when I walk by, I see their owners clucking away inside with the TV on, like they are camping in the driveway (or more likely, hiding from their spouse and/or kids in their big silver escape pods.) Anyway, it’s really cute.

Two other trailers on my route are older and are in varying stages of restoration. I love to check on their progress as I stroll slowly by. I take inventory in my head and then think out loud “hmmm, are those new tires?” or “oh wow, they made great progress polishing last weekend” or “hey, check it out - new tanks from Vintage Trailer Supply. Very cool.”

One trailer on my airwalk is the smallest Airstream I’ve ever seen. I think it’s a Bambi, but I’m too chicken to walk into their driveway to read the plate. So far it’s my favorite neighborhood trailer. It resides in a beautiful Shangri-la of a front yard surrounded by lush greenery and tall bushy trees. Its owners clearly love it because it’s often gone from its perch (I’m always so disappointed when I round the bend and don’t see it’s lovely little silver body smiling back at me.) Although I’ve never met them, I know I would like these folks because even though they have plenty of room in their driveway for both their trailer and tow vehicle, their tiny silver bubble gets preferred seating next to the front door, while their truck sits humbly on the street. These are my kind of people.

The last trailer I visit makes my heart ache. She’s an old girl, maybe 1955 or so, and about 19 feet in length. She has louvered windows and lots of panels up front. She’s backed into the farthest corner of a paved patch of driveway. She’s so far back in there that I swear they built the driveway around her. I’m afraid she’ll never be able to come out of that spot. You’d miss this old trailer if you didn’t know it was there because it’s a grayish brown from years and years of tree branches and moss (yes, moss) growing on and around her. There’s no sparkle, no shine. When I walk by, I tell her to hang in there. Sometimes I round the block and walk by a second time just to cheer her up.

Once I saw a lady walking out of the trailer with some bags in her hand. I stopped and introduced myself to her and asked about her trailer. She didn’t know its model or year, only that it had been in her front yard as long as she could remember. She said the guys that paved the driveway 20 years ago pushed the trailer into the spot that it is now hopelessly squeezed into. She let me peek inside and I’m still haunted by the sight; boxes of who-knows-what stacked haphazardly about, rolls of holiday wrapping paper and tupperware scattered through the kitchen and dining area. Towels, boxes, canned food, and cleaning supplies blocked the path to the bedroom. I thanked her for the tour and said goodbye. As I walked away, I thought “I’ll be back to check on you, my beauty. Just hang in there.”

Even though I sometimes trudge home from my airwalks in a troubled funk trying to think of ways to either steal or rescue the Airstreams on my route, I know I am among friends here in this not-so-special-Airstream-trailer-studded neighborhood. And besides, I usually snap out of the funk when I turn onto my street and catch a glimpse of the big silver beauty my driveway.