We’ve been hinting and telling and joking with you for the past year about the time in the maybe soon future that we will give it all up in Nashville and move this teeny tiny folk band into a teeny tiny camper, which would be bigger than the teeny tiny car we’ve been traveling in since we started this teeny tiny endeavor four years back.
We did it.
About two days after we wrote and recorded a soundtrack in a week for a movie by our friend, Alyssa Pearson (more on that later), we got that strange itch that said all systems were a go, even though we weren’t quite sure what go meant, or how much go feels like no. We got scared and we got tired and we got all our things into a pile on our lawn and held a yard sale for the things we didn’t know we didn’t need. We shuttled our two little cars to a place where they can take two little cars and smash them together to make one big truck– for a teeny tiny big person grown up fee, of course. A fee that may or may not also come with a zillion signatures and a few promises that we really are going to pay these invisible people back with the mere strength of some guitars and an accordion and a banjulele. And the sincere oath of two hopeful folkies that we will, in fact, learn how to haul that 16 foot home on wheels cart we purchased before the (V8) horse(power).
Boy-oh-dammy-woozel, are we terrified.
Which brings us to the next logical step, post ridding our lives of most possessions: the art of cutting the string to the last ounce of financial security we have. We quit our jobs. I find a little solace in that, of all the failed attempts at things I’ve had to this point, singing songs was not one that elicited the response, “Don’t quit your day job” from my father. Because that colloquialism is becoming reality in just a few weeks, and there’s no reversing (literally, we still can’t figure out how to back the trailer up) this decision, even should someone advise us with that pungent phrase.
That mostly brings you up to date, which brings you to our Maiden Voyage. Sure, Sunny from that RV park in Greenville may have laughed a little at us when we clearly couldn’t back into the space. Sure, we’ve had to learn how to toast English Muffins with real fire instead of something you plug in. Maybe our moms text us more often about tornadoes. Maybe we’ve bickered more about which way to turn and who is going to ask for help this time– but we are learning. And we wake up each day feeling a little more at home on the road, like we’ve always felt when we hit the road in that tiny car and on people’s couches. The hiccups will slow down (much like our speed limit), and this exciting new adventure will become our way of life. Plus, we are saving a ton on rent.
Butter? She’s doing just fine. She played with a little dog named Skeeter in the parking lot of the visitors center off the Blue Ridge Parkway a night back, and scuffed up her little paws. Luckily, she had a cushy place to rest while we played Lexington last night. The perks of camper life are already evident. The added benefit of the three of us always being together doesn’t hurt, either.
Just because we don’t have a house, anymore, doesn’t mean we aren’t still on with our regular campaigning. In fact, we have a few extras up our sleeves. You can always keep supporting our Save the U.S. Postal Service Campaign by writing to us at:
The Rough & Tumble
(Mallory Graham and Scott Tyler)
PO Box 160474
Nashville, TN 37216
Well, friends. We reckon we will be seeing you out there. We may not need your couches, anymore, but a driveway is always appreciated.