Dorothy Ross’s memoir, NOT Just a Secretary, holds all the alertness and wry humor she evidenced during her years at work and in retirement. She shares a spirited description of getting her book written and then out there followed by an excerpt about RVing with her late husband Bill.

The Perils of (Self) Publication

For my 80th birthday, a friend sent me this quote from Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.

Oh my God, what if you wake up someday, and you’re 65 or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written, or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy, or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid?

It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let it happen. — Anne Lamott

I read Lamott’s book, took the hint, and started cataloging and culling the more than 200 short pieces I had written over the preceding 20 years. As I began to piece together a patchwork of my experiences, it became obvious that what I was gathering wasn’t one continuous story, but rather a sampler of the stages of my life: working years, sixty years of marriage and motherhood, travels, and adventures around the world. I included some of my favorite personal essays, quite a few of which have been published online and in printed anthologies.

In my rush to have the bound copies ready for holiday mailing, I made several mistakes. First—and worst—was thinking I didn’t need an editor. That bit of hubris saved time and money, but it resulted in my failing to attach two important files to my manuscript—acknowledgments and contents pages. And then there are a couple of minor cut-and-paste errors that would have been picked up by a careful reader/editor.

I outsourced the layout and design elements to a man in India who came highly recommended by a writer friend. He was easy to work with. I was happy with the cover, and the price was right, but the time difference was a bit of a problem when I wanted to talk to him.

I self-published through Amazon because it was fast and cheap, so their website is the only place anyone can purchase my book.

My book is not perfect—but it is in print.

HOBBLED IN HOBBS, An Excerpt from NOT Just a Secretary by Dorothy Ross

“Y’all oughta stay awhile. Snake roundup starts tomorrow.” As Jimbo, our young waiter, drawled on and on about the rattlesnake roundup, I couldn’t imagine anything worse.

The way he described it, the annual hoopla in Big Spring was a Texas crossbreed—part rodeo and part county fair, complete with a Master of Snake Ceremonies. Jimbo said the ceremonies would include a rattlesnake weigh-in and a snake-skinning demonstration. The rattlers to be assayed and flayed would be rounded up by dudes who paid good money for the privilege of participating in guided snake hunts. The snakes would be snared with meat hooks attached to broom handles and then stuffed into plastic garbage cans, as quickly as possible. Alcohol was permitted on the hunt, Jimbo said, but not firearms. At least the tipsy hunters wouldn’t shoot one another.

We decided to pass on a weekend of snake oil and tall stories about the rattlers that got away, like Jimbo’s tale about the two diamondbacks that got knotted in a trash barrel the year before. Thanks a bunch, but no thanks. We’d just get back in our motorhome and head for New Mexico, as planned.

After lunch, when Bill turned the key in the ignition of our fancy new camper, nothing happened.

“Trouble,” he said. “We may need a new starter.” The nearest Mercedes dealership was in Odessa, many miles south, a detour that would take us a day or more out of our way.

I was beginning to question our wisdom in choosing such a unique RV. We could have had a Winnebago. But, no, we chose a Mercedes diesel model that should only be serviced by specially trained mechanics. So there we sat, in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the cavalry, counting the tumbleweeds rolling across the road.

About twenty tumbleweeds later, the owner of Bucky’s Towing Company drove up in a huge hauler. He asked me to wait in the cab while he loaded our van. I climbed the metal ladder cautiously, grateful for the sturdy grab bars. Perched high above the tarmac, I felt like I was sitting on the top of a giant Ferris wheel. Down below, I could see Bill, hands jammed in his jeans, watching, while his precious cargo was uploaded. Content that the van was secure, Bill slid in next to me. Bucky vaulted his wiry frame into the cab and cranked up the engine.

The ride was rough and bouncy, and the roar of the diesel engine made normal conversation impossible, but that didn’t discourage the two men. All the way down that long Texas highway, they traded heavy equipment disaster stories, shouting over the engine rumble. Between the bouncing and the chugging and the hollering, you’d expect me to be miserable, but I was having too much fun.

How I wished my grandkids could see me riding the roads in a real big-rig, a Peterbilt ten-wheeler with a grille the size of a garage door. Blocking out all the noise, I pretended to be the driver of a Wells Fargo stagecoach.

By the time my Wells Fargo wagon reached Odessa, the dealership was closed. Bucky allowed that we could spend that Friday night in our van, parked in the yard of his trucking company.

Most of Bucky’s rolling stock was what I call “boy toys.” Ranged along the back fence, a string of outsized contraptions that looked like gigantic dune buggies stood ready for action. Bill is more than six feet tall but the tops of the fat tractor tires on the monster jeeps were over his head. Our grandsons are all too old to play with toy trucks, but I’m sure they would have been thrilled to drive Bucky’s humongous Tonka Toys.

Next morning I hoisted myself into the truck cab, while Bucky repeated the uploading process. He delivered us to the dealership, where the service manager informed Bill that no one on his staff was certified to work on our van. We’d have to push on to an even larger shop in Hobbs, New Mexico, a hundred miles away. The man said we’d have a chance of catching their mechanic if we got there by noon. At least we’d be heading west, in the general direction of our California home.

Hobbs was out of Bucky’s territory, so we had to change haulers. Our Saturday transport driver was a waif named Candy. Bill likes girls, but he’s a bit of a chauvinist when it comes to skinny little blondes attempting big men’s jobs. Refusing his help, Candy dove under the tons of machinery to attach towing hooks to the van’s axle, nothing but her scruffy sneakers and stovepipe jeans jutting out from under the rig. A few minutes later she crawled free, dusted the dirt off her pants, pulled her ponytail through the keyhole of her oil-stained baseball cap, and motioned us into the cab of the huge Mack truck. Her name was printed on the door in candy-striped red-and-white. That little gal owned the big blue truck!

The radio was playing Elvira by the Oak Ridge Boys. Candy chuckled when I started to sing along. She seemed surprised that a Mercedes-driving, white-haired granny from California would cotton to the boys from Tennessee.

Candy sure was a talker. By the time we reached the New Mexico state line, we’d heard her life story. Our driver was a twenty-four-year-old, divorced, Army veteran, who had majored in diesel mechanics in junior college.

Having exhausted the details of her biography, Candy launched into a lesson on the Texas oilfields. Gesturing with both hands while speeding down the narrow two-lane highway at better than seventy-miles-an-hour, she pointed out big drilling rigs and the pump jacks that look like oversized metal birds pecking at the ground.

I would have been a lot happier if Candy had kept her hands on the wheel. Bill was practicing his best John Wayne imitation—sitting ramrod straight and not saying a word. He surely would have preferred to be in the driver’s seat, with the prattling ponytail ridin’ shotgun. But that chatty chick did get us where we needed to go—on time.

When the service manager at the Dodge dealership accepted our vehicle, he said the mechanic certified to do Mercedes warranty work had gone home early. The service department was closed on Sunday, so we wouldn’t know the extent of our troubles until Monday morning. They might need to order parts, which could take a few days. We piled into the manager’s black Ram for the short drive to the Travelodge.

Bill and I spent our weekend-without-wheels much as we might have lazied through a rainy spell at home—watching cable TV and browsing the Internet. Himself popped open a beer and parked in front of the big screen, greedily soaking up national and international news on FOX. Meanwhile I huddled on the bed with my laptop, catching up with family and friends via email, and letting our children know that we were hobbled in Hobbs.

On Monday morning, the Mercedes-certified mechanic looked under the hood of our van. He agreed that we needed a new starter. The part would have to be sent from Dallas and “should arrive in three days.” Stagecoach would have been faster. Bill arranged to cover the extra cost for overnight service. FedEx delivered the new starter early Tuesday afternoon, and the mechanic installed it while Bill watched him work.

We wasted no time getting out of Hobbs. By three o’clock, we were on the road again. The countryside in the Pecos Valley of New Mexico is so barren that we didn’t expect to find anything of interest in the next town. Artesia surprised us.

“Look at that!” Bill exclaimed.

He was pointing at a gigantic sculpture of a cowboy on a huge rearing bronc. We passed several more monumental statues on street corners in the center of town. The larger-than-life depictions of cowboys, and horses, and cattle looked like oversized Remington bronzes. We found it hard to believe that anyone would install such impressive pieces of art out there in the middle of nowhere. I’m still baffled.

I hated to admit that I was enjoying our driving days. You see, acquiring the motorhome wasn’t my idea. I preferred to ride in our cushy station wagon and stay at motels with comfortable beds. But Bill insisted that we consider a recreational vehicle that would be accepted in National Park campgrounds, and would make travel simpler with our big dog.

After five decades of marriage, I knew I’d be assaulted by Bill’s single-minded focus. Once he’s decided that he wants something, he’s relentless in pursuit. Because he needed my okay for a costly item like the motorhome, I was subjected to weeks of prodding and cajoling, studying the manufacturer’s website, and visiting dealerships to walk through fresh-off-the-assembly-line vehicles. Bill’s determination finally wore down my resistance.

Years ago, we covered the continent, Canada to Mexico, in a mustard-colored Volkswagen pop-up camper that our kids dubbed “The Yellow Submarine.” In those days Bill wore jeans; now he drives in coveralls, the old man’s version of Doctor Denton’s. Bill’s blue all-in-one uniform is ideal for monkey-wrenching and it’s passable in roadside restaurants, but you wouldn’t catch Sean Connery in one.

I can’t afford to tease him, though. My own favorite traveling clothes are baggy grey sweats, worn thin at the elbows. It’s usually close to mid-day by the time I change into jeans and a shirt, ready to face the lunch hour diner crowd.

Over and over, from my comfortable perch in the passenger seat, I thought about the women riding west in Conestoga wagons, exposed to sun and wind, swirling dust and driving rain. My skin was impervious to the glaring sun and the scouring wind, protected by large tinted windows. Compare the comfort afforded by shock absorbers and a modern suspension system with a buckboard ride on wooden wagon wheels.

I’m spoiled. Our rig is equipped with heater, air-conditioner, refrigerator and stove, and that most vital luxury for my serenity–onboard plumbing. I don’t know how pioneer women managed their bodily necessities. I doubt the wagon trains made potty stops.

Westward migration imposed much greater trials than the lack of hot showers. Pioneer women birthed babies in bouncing wagons, and buried husbands and children in forlorn outposts with little hope of ever returning to those hastily dug graves. Still, the women kept their heads up and continued west. We can only imagine the tears that flowed behind those poke bonnets.

Following in the tracks of our foremothers, I silently thanked them for their part in forging the way to El Dorado.

 

From NOT Just a Secretary
November, 2019, paperback and Kindle
ISBN: 978-1-707-26756-9