My Journey to Find Funds to Support My RV Adventure

I began to plan my RV journey 30 years ago.  I would retire early, while I could still enjoy the experience.  After two divorces and all the expenses associated with that, I needed a source of income to support my adventures.  I started a blog and a Youtube page.  These two projects started dribbling in a small amount of income and I was encouraged.  Then Youtube changed its requirements and demonetized me.  The ad money from the blog dried up and so much for that plan. 

I got a little older and it got to “now or never” and I launched.  My plan was to workamp.  For those of you who do not know, Workamping is trading your labor for a place to park your RV and for a little pocket change.  My first stop was Las Vegas.  I ended up staying for four years.   While inVegas, I worked for an internet company selling things online.  I thought this was a skill that would help on the road.  Somewhere along the way I thought I could be a professional poker player.   That didn’t work out.

My first real Workamping job was in Yellowstone.  I worked at the Fishing Bridge Campground as a cashier in the gift shop.  I stayed from April to November and loved every minute of it.  While in Yellowstone I published my first book.  It’s called “Constant Vilagence.”  The book starts out kind of slow and goes downhill from there.  I sold a couple of thousand copies and that was that.

After Yellowstone I went to Chattanooga TN.  And worked there for a season.  Then on to Bar Harbor in Maine, then a farm in Western Pennsylvania, back to Tennessee, on to Texas and finally to North Carolina where I am currently stuck.  Along the way I wrote my second book, “The Mountains of Yellowstone.”  It’s a romance novel.  Based on the fact that I am twice divorced and the lack of book sales, I clearly know nothing about romance.

In North Carolina I began working at a motorcycle resort in maintenance.  Then I became an insurance surveyor and worked for a casino as a poker dealer.  I also wrote four more books.  Nope they didn’t sell either.  I also attempted a print on demand business.  Money trickled in.

One day I got a text message from my doctor telling me to go directly to the emergency room because I was in acute kidney failure.  News to me, I felt fine.  I will spare you the details, but over the next two years I was in and out of the hospital with this or that procedure.  The bottom line is that I am only good for a few hours a day, before I need a nap.  This translates into no job.

“The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray” Hemingway

You are all caught up and now to my next plan.  I have always been proud of my self-reliance.  That went out the window with the kidneys.  I started a new YouTube channel. It’s called Wandering House Restoration.  Along with the channel I created a Patreon account.  Now it’s my job to create content that entertains and informs and hopefully viewers will find value in the posts and contribute to the effort using the Patreon Account.  Based on six books that didn’t sell, I’m not all that hopeful.  The bottom line is that restoring my bus is going to cost some bucks.  So, this is my hail Mary.  Links below

Thank you for your attention.

https://www.youtube.com/@WanderingHouseRestoratio-vz2fo

https://www.patreon.com/cw/u28184441

Wandering House Restoration On Patreon

 

If you’ve been around these old PD-4104s, you already know… they’re something special.

My 1960  4104 that was converted into a motorhome back in the 70s. It’s got history, character, and a whole lot of life left in it—but after sitting for about 5 years, it needs real work to bring it back.

I’ve started documenting the process over on my YouTube channel, Wandering House Restoration, where I’m working to bring this old Greyhound back to life step by step.

Here’s the honest part—this kind of project adds up fast. Parts, materials, unexpected issues… it doesn’t take long.

So I decided to do something I don’t normally do—I set up a Patreon for anyone who wants to follow along a little closer and help support the restoration.

No pressure at all. I know everyone’s got their own projects and expenses. But if you enjoy these buses, want to see another one saved, or just like watching something old get a second chance, I’d appreciate you taking a look.

Even just following along means a lot.

I appreciate this group and all the knowledge shared here—it's already helped more than you know.

—Wandering House Restoration

The Smart Way to Build a Mars Colony:

 

The Smart Way to Build a Mars Colony:

Start with a Moon Factory and a "Mag-Rail" Supply Line.  Imagine you're planning the biggest move in human history: turning a barren red planet into a thriving home for thousands (eventually millions) of people. You need to ship millions of tons of stuff—habitats, machines, food systems, power plants, and more. Launching all that directly from Earth is insanely expensive and only possible every couple of years when Earth and Mars line up just right. But what if there was a cheaper, steadier way? That's where a clever idea comes in: build a base on the Moon first, then use a giant electric catapult (called a mag-rail or mass driver) to fling supplies into space at a fraction of the cost.  Here's how it could work in simple terms:

• The Moon has super-low gravity (only 1/6th of Earth's) and no air to slow things down. A long rail powered by solar electricity could accelerate heavy cargo pods to escape speed without burning any rocket fuel.
• Once built, this mag-rail acts like a cheap space gun. You manufacture or assemble the cargo right on the Moon (using local dirt for shielding and materials), load it up, and shoot it toward Mars' orbit.
• To make deliveries reliable, you could park a "ring" of waiting cargo pods in a slightly slower orbit around the Sun. Mars, moving a bit faster in its path, catches up to one every month or so. A small shuttle (launched cheaply from the same Moon rail) meets it, grabs what you need, and heads to Mars. No more waiting 26 months for the perfect window—steady monthly shipments!

This isn't wild sci-fi. The concept dates back decades (think Gerard O'Neill's 1970s mass-driver ideas), and it's suddenly very relevant. Elon Musk has been talking about building a "self-growing city" on the Moon (he calls it Moon Base Alpha) with exactly this kind of electromagnetic launcher to fling satellites, factories, or other payloads into space. Recent reports mention SpaceX planning lunar manufacturing and mass drivers to support massive orbital projects.  Some people see Musk's Moon focus as ditching Mars. But look closer: he repeatedly says the goal is still making humanity multi-planetary, with a Mars city starting in 5–7 years (though it might take 20+ years total due to those rare launch windows). The Moon pivot is about speed and survival, a self-sustaining off-world base fast (in under 10 years possible), iterate quickly (Moon trips every few days vs. Mars every 26 months), and protect against Earth disasters cutting off supplies. In Musk's words, the Moon is the faster steppingstone to secure civilization's future. Once the lunar base is humming—with cheap launches, local production, and that mag-rail humming—shipping the massive tonnage needed for a real Mars colony becomes way more practical and affordable steppingstone. Lunar ops (like AI satellites or orbital factories) could even speed up Mars work. Bottom line: Musk hasn't lost sight of Mars. He's building the industrial infrastructure (starting on the Moon) to make it realistic. The mag-rail supply idea could be a key part of that bridge—turning one giant, risky leap into a series of smart, economical steps toward the stars. What do you think—could this Moon-first approach finally crack the code for permanent colonies beyond Earth?

 

Chapter Six

Dylan didn't attend the funeral.  He thought about Terry Neilson and the pills that he had sold her.  He didn't put a gun to her head.  She had come to him.  He wasn't responsible for her death.  She did what she did under her own free will.  

Dylan Brown was in his late forties, wore glasses and was mostly bald.  He was always in a ball cap and had a mustache and goatee that hid he double chin.  A little over weight for his five ten frame, he liked to wear bib and brace overalls for effect. It made him look more country and got people to under estimate him.  He played the country bumpkin role to great effect.  He adopted y’all and you’uns and strove to erase any remnants of the Yankee accent that he had when he first moved to Eden.  He wanted everyone to forget that he “Wasn’t from around here.”

Dylan thought himself smarter than most and he probably was.  He liked to say that “He highly valued his own opinion.”  Untraditional in many ways, the idea of working for someone rubbed him the wrong way.  Yes, he earned a wage, but someone profited from his efforts.  He wanted to keep all the money his labors brought.

In high school it had been a challenge to fit in.  He eventually just gave up and resigned himself to the fact that it was never going to happen.  He didn’t go to college and after school, he went back up north and stayed with his grand parents for a couple of years.  He found the same feeling of being an outsider.  Although he was from there, the years spent in Eden had influenced his speech patterns and he didn’t sound like the local residence.  He was from two worlds and didn’t fit in either.  He returned to Eden and lived in a trailer on part of his parents property.    

He had always been good at fixing things, so he started working odd jobs.  Painting a shed and fixing a fence led to other jobs and eventually he made a living as a handyman.   It was a cash business and that meant it was easy for him to conceal his success.  He used an old pickup truck and bought a trailer for his tools.

Dylan looked for the angles and tried to think out of the box.  He admired D.B. Cooper for his inventiveness.  No one had ever hijacked a plane before Cooper, let alone escape with a parachute out the back of the plane.  It was Cooper’s ingenuity that Dylan admired.  

 On top of that, people paid good money for a pet rock.  This was insane to Dylan and confirmed what he thought about most people.  He devoted many evenings trying to come up with his own original idea.  

Dylan studied and thought about what it took to get ahead in life.  A profession would enable his to make good money while working for himself.  That took years of effort to get the education and he was already behind.  He had skipped college and now was out of the habit of going to school.  And they made you study all those things that were designed to round out the individual.  Art appreciation was a waste of his time.  Dylan eventually focused on real estate.  They weren’t making anymore land and everyone needed a place to live.  

Starting small in the next county, he began buying distressed property.  His experience as a handyman was put to use and he had the house fixed up and rented out in no time.  The rent covered the mortgage and them some.  He applied all the of rent money to pay down the mortgage.  In a few short years he had the house free and clear and was working on his next project.  He fixed that one up and use the rent from both houses to pay down the mortgage.  It too was mortgage free in a quarter of the time.  He continued this process until he had twenty houses, all free and clear, rented out and producing income.

Dylan had kept his investments at a distance.  He continued to live in his trailer on his parents land in Eden.  Eventually, his father passed and shortly thereafter his mother followed.  Dylan inherited the land and moved into the family home.

Keeping a low profile was important to Dylan.  In his dealings with his tenants, he was never the owner, he was just the manager and handyman.  When ask to wait on the rent, he would say, “I just work for the owner.  He expects me to collect the rent.   I need this Job.  I will get fired if I let you slide.”

Dylan began buying up land in the valley around Eden. It all started when he was called for a job and the owner told him he was getting ready to sell.  He would make a deal and buy the land before it got on the market. 

 He quickly decided to have a straw man take title to whatever he bought to hide his growing holdings.   He had grand plans for developing the area.  Subdivisions instead of farms. He used the straw man to make applications for building permits on the land that he owned.  It was all zoned for agriculture and he wanted to build houses.  The local authorities refused to allow the change in use, citing infrastructure concerns and the developments impact on the character of the community.  Dylan didn’t want to be a farmer.  He didn’t care about the character of the community.  He wanted to develop his land.

Dylan knew he was right.  The people of Eden would thank him one day.  The old refrain “You’re not from around here, are you?”  would be replaced with “We needed someone from outside to show us the way.”  He would not be an outsider, he would be their savior.

There were others that felt the way Dylan felt.  Others that saw the opportunity to make a fortune if the attitudes of the locals could be changed.  The locals wanted to preserve the way of life in their community.  They just needed to be shown that not only can you not go home again, even if you stayed home, things would always change and you can never insure that the status quo would remain forever.  

The most potent motivating factor is fear.  It was fear of change that the kept the town small and prevented development.  Dylan needed something that would create fear in the locals that if they did  not change, the result would be even worse.  He would think about that later,  right now the Neilson property was up for sale.

Chapter Five

     Tall and slender with shoulder length light brown hair Mary is a good hearted woman with good lines.  Understanding and forgiving with an inviting warmth.  Supportive and approachable.  No pretense.  Steady, sure in her vision and confident in her values.  Glasses without pretense.  Rooted, loyal optimistic.  

 She was a force of nature.  She had a plan, a vision from as early as she could remember.  She saw herself with her home and family years into the future.  Three kid and a dog.  Sunday school and Saturdays at the park.  Baseball leagues for the boys and 4H raising chickens for the girls.   She would be a stay at home mom and return to work when all the kids were in school.  It was her vision and it would all happen in Eden.  The town where she grew up.  Where her parents and grandparents lived.  Maybe even in Nana’s house.  A stone house built in the 1920’s with hard wood floors, a grand stone fireplace and bay windows looking out over the hay fields that surrounded the town.

It had all come true just as she had seen it.  She met Ted in high school. They both attended a local community college and found they had classes together.  Traveling in the same circle of friends, it wasn’t long before he caught her eye.  She decided that he was the one and Ted never knew what hit him.  Once she made up her mind, she would not be denied.  She smiled her smile, laughed at his jokes, made it a point to be around when he was around.  She asked him for help studying even though she was a better student than he was.  She listened intently as he explained the course work and before he knew it, they were an item.  

It was a April wedding in the church where she was baptized, with a reception following at the Fellowship Hall.  The same church her where her parents had wed.  Where she took her first communion.  Her roots were deep in Eden and she was going to build her life here.   Babies came as the years rolled by.  It was all going as planned.  At first she was concerned when Ted went into law enforcement.  She worried that he would get hurt, that he would harden with the demands of the job.  Ted surprised her as Eden became his extended family.  He was more like Andy Griffith than Clint Eastwood.  

Her roll as the sheriff’s wife came with burdens and responsibilities.  She was active in the community and anytime someone’s son would run afoul of the law, their mother would come to her with plea of leniency.  “My boy is a good boy.  It didn’t really mean any harm.”   Were the standard approaches.  She had learn that her roll was to reassure the mother.  Everything would be okay.  Rarely if ever was jail time ever an issue.  The worst case was probation and community service.  She was understanding and supportive.  She empathized with their heartache.  She calmed their fears and explained the process.  She could have been a family counselor.

Terry's passing shook Mary to her core.  “It is the end of the world as we know it.”  Mary murmured, mostly to herself—but loud enough for Ted to hear.

“What do you mean?”  Ted asked

“Thing will never be the same.” She said softly.

“What things?  Ted pressed.

“Everything.”  Mary’s voice was firm, yet weary.  

“Who will keep the history of this place.  Some developer will buy the Neilson house, divide up the land, and sell hobby farm to rich people in Atlanta and Charlotte.  That house has stood for over a century. Terry’s great-grandfather built it with his own hands. Generations grew up there—babies took their first breaths, old folks drew their last. And now? Some developer will tear it down or gut it, wiping away every memory, every story, as if they never existed.”

“You can’t stop progress.”  Ted said, but even as the words left his mouth, they felt hollow. 

“That’s not progress.  It’s erasure. Our culture matters. Our values deserve protection.”  I understand people want to make money.  But can they recreate the years of history that this valley has witnessed?
   Once we start down that road, we can never get it back. 

“ In no time at all, the old residents will be outnumbered by the new.  They will control the direction the county takes.  They will decide whether the mountains are carved up with roads and houses built all along the ridges.  They will decide what kind of stores move here, what kind of restaurants open in the area. “

Ted shifted back and forth as he listened.  He knew she was right.

“What can we do?”  He asked.  “The children of the long time residents move away when they are old enough.  The old way of life is dying from attrition and there in nothing to be done about it.” 

“Should we just let that go,  just so some rich people can have a second home.”   Mary’s face was long and her lips were thin and quivering.  She avoided looking in Ted’s eyes and focused off in the distance.  She was seeing the future and it broke her heart.  The home she had live in and loved all her life was dying and there was no stopping it.

Ted searched for something—anything—to give Mary hope. A promise. A reassurance. But there were no words. Only silence. They sat in silence, holding each other.  Mary turned and rested her head Ted’s shoulder as he pulled her closer, meeting her embrace, cradling her in his arms.  Ted held her close, but he knew—there was no shelter from the storm ahead. No way to stop the tears or the loss waiting just over the horizon. 

Chapter Four

 Tragedy has a way of gripping a small town. News travels fast, whispers turn into headlines, and suddenly, everyone has a story to tell. 

In a small town, where life moves slow and days blend together, even the smallest tragedy feels monumental.  In small towns, people claim to know one another—at least well enough to talk about each other. 

Terry’s death made the front page of the local paper, her senior yearbook photo staring out from the article—a face frozen in time, full of promise.”  

 The article provided few details, offering instead a brief biography of Terry—who she was, where she’d been, but not why she was gone.  The article conclude with  "The police are investigating and the corners report is pending."  At the bottom of the page, a notice listed the details of Terry’s funeral. A service at Beacon of Hope Baptist Church. Burial at Tranquility Ridge Cemetery. A reception for family and friends to follow. Another name, another date, another farewell. 

Perched on a gentle rise overlooking Eden, the Beacon of Hope Baptist Church stood simple and unadorned. Built in 1885, its white ship-lap siding and steep gabled roof had weathered over a century of sermons, weddings, and funerals. The floors were covered with wide southern pine planks, from the old growth forest that once covered the hills and valleys nearby.  The rafters were left exposed and the underside of the roof was painted white. 

 Originally built without a spire, the church had planned to add a tower in time. Until then, the bell sat on a five-foot brick stand near the entrance. Years later, when the spire was finally erected, the congregation had grown accustomed to the bell’s place and refused to move it. A bronze plaque was eventually affixed to its base, a silent testament to the town’s traditions. 

The spruce pews that filled the nave were worn and rippled as the hard winter rings stood proud of the soft summer growth from years of members sliding in and out of their seats.  A simple wooded pulpit stood to the left on the raised alter and the baptismal was next to the front door.  

The Lancet windows were the only luxury in the church.  These stained glass windows colored the light that fell on the spruce pews and pine floors. They were purchased at the bequest on a widowed mother who lost her only child in the Civil War and wanted a remembrance of his sacrifice.   It was a simple church built for a simple congregation. 

 Today another child was being delivered into the arm of the Almighty.  The House of the Lord was filled.  Some where family, some were friends and some were just curious.  The preacher talked about the better place that Terry was going to, a Paradise. He remember her life and extolled her qualities.  He gave what comfort he could to her family. 

 Tears fell, and for a moment, grief reminded them all—no one is promised tomorrow. In the quiet weight of loss, minds turned inward, sifting through regrets and unspoken words. Relationships were reconsidered, promises silently renewed. But in time, as always, life would move on, and these reflections would fade 

The service ended and the preacher announced the location of the interment.  

In Eden, the Sheriff’s Department always escorted funeral processions. It was a tradition Ted had carried on since his days as a Volunteer Deputy—one that most regular deputies preferred to avoid. But for Ted, it was more than just a duty; he had known most of the county’s residents and would have likely attended many of the funerals anyway. 

After becoming a regular deputy and then Sheriff, he continued the practice.  It was the only time outside of official Department events that Ted wore his dress uniform. The procession was one of the longest in recent memory.  The Sheriff lead the way while three other deputies controlled traffic and followed behind.   A short drive from the church, Tranquility Ridge Cemetery was just out of town and was the Neilsen’s family cemetery.   Terry was placed next to her father.  

After the interment the family received guest at the VFW hall.  Terry was from a well know family and that had lived many years in the county.  Her mother and sister returned to Eden to attend the funeral.  One by one, people stopped to offer their condolences and bid farewell to Mother Nielson. They all knew, though no one dared say it aloud, that this would likely be the last time they saw her. She had health problems and was living in the big city.  With the death of her child and her health, she would most likely never return.  

Ted thought to himself that this was a day that marked a change.  From this day forward the Neilson family would never again be residents of Eden.  He searched the crowd for his wife. Mary was standing next to the stage with his daughter Sara.  Ted looked at Sara and fought the tears that welled up in his eyes. This could have been Sara.  He caught Mary’s eye and she let herself smile at him.  Ted scanned the room, seeing fragments of his past in every familiar face. The friends he had grown up with. The man who sold him his first car. His barber, his banker. The girl he once loved—and the man who had stolen her away. 

 The next thing he knew, Mary was standing next to him and had her arm lock onto his.  She leaned into his side and grasp his hand in hers.  She gently squeezed his hand and whispered “I love you”.  

Mother Nielson said her goodbyes and gave hugs and thank yous to everyone that offered their condolences.  She was tired and weary from the ordeal of it all.  She excused herself and and left with her oldest daughter for the long trip back to the city.  People lingered and VFW’s bar open for service.  Mary and Sara had left and Ted followed shortly thereafter. 

On his way home, Ted’s thoughts turned dark. Had the person who gave Terry the drugs been someone local? Had they stood among the mourners today, blending in with the grief-stricken crowd? And would Eden ever truly return to normal?" 

Chapter Three

 Ted heard the cars coming up the gravel drive.  A patrol car and a sedan, followed by an ambulance.  Dr. Welborn walked into the room and acknowledge Ted.  “What do we have?”  he asked.

“Its Terry Nielson.”  Ted replied.  “She may have overdosed.”

Dr. Welborn walked around and to the head of the bed.  He didn’t have to do more than look to know that Terry was gone.   He felt for a pulse and found none.  On the night stand was an open prescription bottle.  Dr. Welborn recognized the prescription as being one that he had written several months ago.  Terry had been in an auto accident and suffered whiplash.  He had seen her a couple of times and after a month found her pain free and released her return to work.  

“I proscribed her pain pills three months ago when I saw her after an automobile accident.” He stated.  The thought that he was somehow responsible for her death intruded its way into his mind.  She had been his patients, he had proscribed the pills, and now she was dead and maybe from an overdose.  

Dr. Welborn bent over and looked into the opened bottle.  In the bottom he saw circular white pills.   ”Wait a second.” Dr. Welborn frowned. “These aren’t right.” He picked up the bottle, shaking it slightly. “I prescribed her oblong, yellow pills—marked 36 10. These… these are white and round. “

  “Somethings wrong.”  He stated.  “ These are not the pills that she got from me.”

“Do you recognize the what the pills are?  Are they Fentanyl?”  Ted asked.

“I have no idea.  They could be anything.”  Welborn replied.

Ted and Dr Welborn fell into the mechanics of the job.  Things needed to be done, procedures needed to be followed.  It was their job and they put aside their personal feelings.  After collecting evidence and taking pictures, the body was placed in a plastic bag.  Ted stood and watched as the zipper was closed and Terry’s face disappeared.  

On the drive back to Eden Ted’s thoughts were about Terry.  It was easy for him to imagine that it was his daughter, lying dead in that house.  They grew up together, they went to school together, had the same friends.  The weight of it all pressed down on him, suffocating. His hands trembled on the wheel as he veered onto the shoulder. The first sob hit him like a gut punch, then another. He buried his face in his hands and let go. For Terry. For her mother. For the town that was losing too many, too soon  

Ted struggle to compose himself. He had work to do.  Accidental overdose or murder—he wasn’t sure yet. But someone had given Terry those pills, and if they were illegal, that someone had blood on their hands 

 If the drugs were illegal, whoever supplied them could be held responsible for her death.  An investigation was required. The Coroner would do an autopsy to determine cause of death and a tox screen would be part of the process.  It could be weeks before the results were in.   He put the car in gear and headed back to Eden, back home.  

* * * 

“Honey, I’m home.” Ted calls out as he walks through his kitchen door.  

“In here.” Came from the den.  Mary appears in the kitchen and hugged Ted hello.

Mary infers from Ted manor and asked. “Rough day at the office?”

“Yeah… I went to check on Terry Neilson today. Found her in her bed. She was gone.” 

“My God, little Terry. What happened?”

“We don’t know for sure.  It may have been an overdose.  Dr. Welborn thinks the pills weren’t legit, but we won’t have confirmation for weeks.” 

“Have you told your daughters?

“No… every time I picked up the phone, I just… I couldn’t. It could’ve been one of them, Mary. It
could’ve been our girl lying in that bed.” 

“I know, I’ll go and tell them., They’re down stairs.”

“Mary disappeared down the stairs. Ted listened—muffled voices, then silence. When she returned, her hands were trembling. Her eyes, red and swollen, locked onto his. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.”   Ted looked at her and wrapped her in his arms.  They stood in their kitchen and wept together.   That night, they sat together in the dim glow of the living room, flipping through old photos, reliving the camping trips, the ball games, the laughter. Terry’s voice still echoed in their memories—so full of life. Ted held his daughters a little tighter that night, the weight of what could have been pressing heavy on his chest.”