“The River Rue
“offers quiet beauty to campers traveling through the back roads of Eastern Washington”

I grew up in an R.V. park. Not a trailer park, an R.V. park.
R.V., as in Recreational Vehicle, not mobile home.

Just so we are clear. This is a very important distinction, especially to me. An R.V. Park is for camping, vacation, family fun. A trailer park conjures up images (not always fair or accurate) of poor unintelligent people living in dirty trailers on a sectioned lot with a couple three-legged dogs running around.

Located in Washington State one mile from Lake Roosevelt, fourteen miles from the nearest town, two hours from the nearest place worth being, five hours from Seattle. Weekend fun was a keg in a field if you were popular enough to be invited (which most of the time I was not). I began working for my parents at the age of three and stopped at the age of twenty. What can a three-year old do you might ask? Well in my (and my sisterís) case we picked up trash for a penny a piece and received a nickel for each pop can. By the time I left, I was running the place when my parents were gone, and was the second ranking employee (my mom was the first).

I have a lot of stories from growing up in an RV park. I donít know if they are interesting to anyone but me, Iíd like to think they are. Of course, we all like to think our lives are interesting. So, in order to intrigue you, I give you ìThe life-threatening situation involving my dad and drug addled campers!î

To understand my story, and anything else I ever tell, you need to know two things. (more…)