Shortly, We Shiver In Paradise

It was a deal.

We undertook a remodeling at the Alamo, fortifying the walls, roof and floors with lead to repel the government's X-ray weaponry, the microwave threat and the long-anticipated fire from heaven promised in Revelations.

I needed temporary quarters and bought the travel trailer from a pal. It is a covered wagon, a modern-day Prairie Schooner, about 35 feet long.

It is a few hundred feet from the beach, from the edge of America, in a trailer park.

We are not supposed to write "trailer park" in the newspaper. It might hurt somebody's self-esteem. To give it the cachet to lure real-estate speculators we call it the Greenhorn Estate Resort & Florida Cracker Camp. In the old-time Florida tradition, we charge four times what the dumps are worth and, until recently, they were knocking down the doors to get in.

But I think I know a trailer park when I see one.

The 1994 imitation Japanese sports car would not budge the Schooner. The car had assumed its inscrutable Asian contempt for the West, offended after a late-night, three-state Kamikaze run through a violent frontal system loaded with tornadoes.

We had Revelations-style rain cascading over car and road, wipers whipping the windshield, vehicles hydroplaning into ditches and trees, blue and red lights turning, cops pulling on rain slickers, thunder rumbling and lightning flickering over rivers of asphalt. Cursing like Ahab tied to the mast, I slowed to 70 as a precaution.

The car took Asian revenge. The spare-tire wheel well filled with water and overflowed into the back floorboards and then the front.

What these Japanese cars lack is testosterone. That's why Democrats and editors drive them.

The Schooner required a vehicle of substance like the women drive, particularly mothers accustomed to mowing down the opposition, including, if necessary, the husband, children and environmentalists.

The wife's gas-guzzling, ozone-killing, American dinosaur SUV — fully loaded with the armor plating, roof-mounted .50-caliber and a box of pink tissues in the console — should pull the thing.

We could fix up the Schooner, load provisions — salt pork, fatback and rotgut tequila, the kind with the red plastic sombrero on top — and sail for Montana. Yeah.

I abandoned the Alamo and pitched camp in paradise. It was 30 degrees at the beach.

The Schooner's propane heater did not work. A neighbor loaned an electric one. No hot water either. Just before the pipes froze, I got a shower and emerged half the man that went in.

Next day, an RV repair guy said he could be there in a week.

My neighbor felt sorry for me. He called one night when I was working on a few dozen oysters at Hunt's. Said he had gone in and hooked up another heater. The circuit blew. Now none of the heaters worked. The predicted low that night was 29.

After a couple of days of showers, my vital parts had shrunk. I got the binoculars to check out the situation. I cleaned the lenses, took another look and made an appointment with my ophthalmologist.

A few more days of global warming and I expected to be back in puberty.

The repair guy had good news. He got the hot water working. He had bad news. He had never seen this kind of heater. It would require consultations with parts suppliers and perhaps an international flight. He had worse news. The trailer was too big to tow any great distance. This dashed my Lewis and Clark hopes.

It has warmed up again. Much of our country shivers in the raw deal of winter. I put on my red plastic sombrero and toasted good fortune.

Phil Lucas is executive editor of The News Herald in Panama City, Fla. Contact him at plucas@pcnh.com. To find out more about Lucas and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2007 CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.