Trailer Treasure

When I was ten, my parents and I moved into a trailer court. At the time, I didn’t realize this was “low class” living. I liked the trailer, with its wood paneling and mismatched carpeting. It had character—although I wouldn’t have used that word then; I just knew it made me feel happy. I had my own room. It was very small but had a cute little closet door and built-in drawers.

At age twelve we moved into a more permanent situation—not a rental trailer but our own trailer. My grandpa had bought us a 1956 single-wide in the hopes that we could get on our feet a bit better, not having such substantial rent costs—now we would only have to pay space rent. We moved into a much smaller “court”—and a smaller town as well.

Because my parents felt I should continue to have my own room—especially since I was nearly a teenager, they opted to sleep in the living room area (it was really too small to be called a room) on some kind of a fold-down couch and let me take the very compact bedroom at the back of the trailer. I remember papering the walls with magazine pictures—affixed with Elmer’s Glue.

About three years later, we moved “up a creek”—literally— and my parents stayed there for about eleven more years after I married and moved away. We took our same turquoise trailer and transplanted it about five miles away. Though the trailer was remarkably sound for its age, there were definitely “issues”—with our furnace breaking down (continually), sinks getting clogged (chronically), and our water heater not working—we had to heat up water on the stove for baths for much of the time that we lived there. Instead of paying space rent, we were blessed to park our trailer on a relative’s property—on a fairly sparsely inhabited road; we had no neighbors right next-door, which suited my parents well.

There wasn’t a lot of room for guests, so there weren’t many of those, and I certainly didn’t have friends stay over. Instead, I spent a lot of nights with my cousin down the road—it was her parents’ property we were living on. In fact, there wasn’t a whole lot of room for anything—and let’s just say we weren’t the best at keeping things neat and tidy. Still, it was our home, and we felt a certain comfort in being there.

You’d think that living in a trailer, virtually out in the country, we’d have a bunch of rusty old cars sitting around. But no—we didn’t collect cars—we collected cats. Not purebred Siamese or Persian cats—these were “mutt” cats. When I was eight or nine, we had acquired Baby, a black female short-hair. My parents had no money to devote to spaying or neutering, so Baby soon became pregnant. Several litters later, we still had Baby, who had successfully mated a couple times with one of her offspring—a grey cat we called Professor, because he was remarkably brighter than most of the felines produced through this rather redneck bloodline. Since we did live close to the country, we were able to “farm out” some of the kittens. But we kept Professor and Baby—which probably wasn’t a great idea, as neither one was fixed. So the proliferation of less-than-intelligent cat stock continued for some time.

We shopped at thrift stores and ate standard “poor folk” food like spaghetti, Spanish rice, beans, potatoes, etc. Before the Oregon Health Plan came along, we didn’t have medical coverage, so emergencies were also financial hardships. Such was the case when I had to get emergency stitches at age nine. Nasty hospital bill. There was no buffer for times like these.

My folks couldn’t afford manufactured building supplies to improve our home, so my dad would fix what he could and would enlist the help of others at times. He built “porches” for our front and back doors out of large blocks of wood. No garbage service meant hauling refuse to the dump or disposing of it via the large burning barrel my dad kept out in the field area behind our trailer. Burning trash was something my dad derived nearly as much pleasure from as planting potatoes—he was easily entertained, I suppose—but also, he loved the outdoors.

And he trained me to love it too...or at least spend a lot of time in it. Most ten-year-olds are probably practicing cursive (mine was fairly sloppy), going to movies, or learning to wash the family car. I learned how to wield a machete. I actually became fairly adept at chopping down small alder trees and trimming off their branches. Why? Because for probably fifteen years, my parents’ line of work was harvesting young alders, which were sold to a “middle man,” who in turn sold them to the Reynolds Aluminum plant—where they were used to stir gigantic pots of aluminum.

It was sweaty work, and work clothes got re-used…frequently. We had no laundry facilities and no money to devote to laundromat outings. My mother did hand-washings in the bathtub whenever possible, but with the hard labor she did on a daily basis, it was difficult to find the time and energy to do so. My parents were extremely hard-working with never much to show for all their diligent labor. Mom always said, “We’re rich in the things that count.”

In high school, sometimes being rich merely in love, laughter, and high-calorie foods sometimes felt like it wasn’t enough. Not that I wanted to be rich, per say—but being poor could be pretty embarrassing at times. One good thing that came of it, though, was a greater appreciation for the things I did have. And a certain pride in my parents for giving their all so I could have the basics, and occasionally more.

By common social standards—mentally-challenged cats roaming about, a run-down shed with moss growing on the roof, no skirt siding on our trailer, and too much money invested in Kraft macaroni and Hostess treats—my family would’ve been labeled “trailer trash.” But what I’ve learned is…

I’m really trailer treasure. It was during those awkward, poverty-stricken years with no real luxuries to speak of that I learned to value family, hard work, and the oft unappreciated blessing of having a roof over one’s head. I left my thirty-foot-long home knowing that I was more than where I came from—beyond my economical roots, I had been imbued with talents, dreams, and compassion. God had planted these eternal seeds against an unlikely backdrop and begun to develop them.

As a camp counselor at outdoor school my senior year, a young girl from a similar financial (and therefore social) background had been assigned to my cabin—specifically because I was someone the directors felt she’d feel comfortable with—someone who could give her the acceptance she needed and put her at ease during our week at camp. It proved to be true, and I found myself feeling honored—that I was seen as someone who could reach a young child’s heart. Perhaps it had something to do with my growing desire to become a teacher.

Because I grew up “a diamond in the rough,” I could see the potential—the treasure, the greatness—in others. Had I not lived in that drafty, humble trailer, I would not be the person I am today—a woman keenly aware of God’s great love for me and His desire to unearth the treasures of my history for the benefit of my future. And the future of others. I am His treasure.

“For you are a people holy to the LORD your God. The LORD your God has chosen you out of all the peoples on the face of the earth to be his people, his treasured possession” (Deuteronomy 7:6).