Boom Boom (Out Go the Lights)

This business of writing and selling books is tough, let me tell you! It’s just one thing after another. I found myself at loose ends after finishing the national tour of the lower 48 states. Used to traveling to new and exciting places every day, suddenly I had to switch to the less-than-exciting business of marketing and promoting my book, a task which I regarded with dread.

A Midwesterner, I was born and raised with the natural sense of humility and modesty that is the bane of all marketers everywhere. It is my goal in life not to call attention to myself in any way, to praise others but never myself, and to avoid the spotlight by any means necessary. I feel the same way about my book. I don’t want to promote it. I just want people to read and enjoy it.

Midwesterners tend to be modest to a fault.

How they find out about it is their business, not mine. I had assumed that books grew legs once published, and roamed about the streets by day, presenting themselves to potential readers. It is not so. The book is a lazy thing which sits there all day long, doing precisely nothing. It is like a cat, which cares not the least bit whether you notice it, as long as it is warm, dry, and safe.

I had hoped the book would go out and promote itself

I am still using the business model that I created for the book tour. Assume no income, and spend as little as humanly possible, until the book starts pulling its own weight. So, I had continued to use the services of an organization called Harvest Hosts (HH), a brilliant network of wineries, breweries, and distilleries all over the country, plus private homes and farms that host RV travelers for free for one night. This latter group is called “Boondockers Welcome” (BW)

I was fiddling around in my old haunt, Falls Church VA, for lack of anywhere better to go, while I worked tirelessly to get the eBook versions onto Amazon so I could begin planning my launch. I was nervous that summer would pounce early this year with its vicious heat and high humidity. Thus, I resolved to head for higher ground in the Piedmont region of Virginia and headed west.

Western Virginia near West Virginia

I arrived in Western VA and checked my messages to see the status of all my HH requests. All but one request were approved. One BW host declined, informing me that since I was traveling in a minivan, I was not allowed to stay at BW sites. I responded that I had just finished a tour of all 48 lower states, and not one person had ever refused an overnight stay due to my minivan.

He angrily replied that the rules are the rules, and I was, therefore, presumably, a rule breaker. I have a character flaw in which I respond to unreasonable people unreasonably. I made a wise crack, wishing him and his rules a wonderful rest of the day. Well, he did not like that at all. I got a very long message which can be reduced to one point: He was going to make me regret it. He would not sit by idly while some idler in a minivan poked fun at a gen-u-ine full-size RV owner!

Comparing the size of a mini-camper with a much larger RV

I did not think much about it the rest of Sunday as I continued heading west, until I stopped about 5 pm and checked my messages. I had arrived too late to overnight at the winery in Edinburgh, VA. They had closed for the night and I had to find alternative accommodation.

Darn. Or a word similar to darn, but with a slightly different spelling.

Monday morning, I got up and checked my HH messages. Suddenly, all of my  HH stays for the week had cancelled. When I tried to sign onto the HH website, it would not let me in. The little wheel just kept going around and around. Then I got an email from someone at HH informing me that my membership was suspended because I had a minivan, which is not allowed in HH.

No kiddin'/I'm ready to fight/I was lookin' for a place for the night
I thought I had it in my sights/Boom boom, out go the lights

Boom boom. Out went my lights! Well. I guess that fellow showed me a thing or two. One thing he showed me is that sometimes the biggest assholes come from the smallest towns. He lived in a community of 300 people. I would imagine he was rather pleased with himself for getting HH to suspend me as a member.

Sometimes a small-town bully just pushes people around a bit too much

I was not terribly pleased but had to admit that he was very efficient at getting even. I, on the other hand, could do absolutely nothing to get even with him. I briefly considered the idea of renting a dump truck and depositing a big load of manure in his driveway but decided against it.  I figured in a small place like Afton, VA, the law would be on his side. He might even BE the law.

I found the suspension confusing, because I had informed HH when I applied that I had a mini-campervan. I sent them pictures and indicated the make and model of my vehicle. They still approved me as a member. I had used HH for six months traveling to the 48 lower states and not one host had ever refused an overnight stay due to the humble nature of my transportation.

The woman from HH who emailed me apologized for the inconvenience and asked me to send them pictures proving that my minivan was not a minivan. I replied that the pictures would not be able to prove it had become something other than what it was. I also raised the point that HH had approved my membership and that I had enjoyed using the network for the entire past year.

No matter. I was suspended. It was final. But I don’t stay mad for long, and I don’t just mope. I get busy. I would not allow the “Afton Affhole” to ruin my day, my week, or my month. I would figure out what to do. I would figure it out quick.

I had to find some other sort of network that would accommodate me around the country, as I intended to resume traveling soon to book festivals and to do signing events at bookstores. I checked out a site called HipCamp. It turned out that they had ample options out in Western Virginia. In a matter of an hour, I had found a dozen potential sites and made a booking. I would not have to buy a bottle of wine, and I did not have to arrive by 5 pm before their early closing.

As I thought about it, I decided the Afton Affhole had done me a favor. I had gotten into a rut, relying on HH after I had already been everywhere with them. I was tired of the wineries that sold mediocre bottles of wine for the price of good wine. I was tired of being the only guest in a mini-campervan, and of having other guests look at me askance, as if my being there was somehow a bit fishy.

I never really felt that I fit in with the larger RVs at the Harvest Hosts sites

I was also tired of the fact that virtually all the HH hosts and guests were white. I had become aware of it pretty quickly out West last summer, but there was not much I could do about it. I wondered why there were no African American guests, no Hispanic guests, and no Asian-American guests. I assumed it was because HH did not appeal to them; perhaps they did not feel comfortable.

I felt somewhat guilty for using an organization that may not have actively discriminated against non-white minority groups, but that did not seem to be doing anything obvious to rectify matters. I was very impressed that the first thing HipCamp declared on its website it that INCLUSIVITY is mandatory for all hosts, and it will not tolerate any form of discrimination against minorities.

Sometimes the Harvest Hosts and their guests just seemed TOO white…

I thought briefly about driving over to Afton VA to meet the Affhole in person and telling him thank you for shaking me up. But I decided that, like most idiots who bully others to get their own way, he would not respond to me with a show of appreciation. No, I figured he might reach in his pick-up truck for his shotgun.

Anyway, I had better things to do. I had to finish converting my book to an e-book and putting it online. Being shot full of holes would not make it any easier for me to upload the e-books or to plan and carry out an overdue book launch. Being a fat, out-of-shape old man would not make it easy for me to defend myself against a hot-tempered younger man with a tendency to vindictiveness.

One thing I decided I would never do is tell people about the Afton Affhole or what a son of a gun he is. He is mean, he is ornery, and when he is mad, he gets results. No. I will carry that secret with me to my grave, along with a copy of my book, My Two Centuries in Africa. Or I may have myself cremated and arrange a flyover to sprinkle my ashes on a certain home in Afton VA, most likely on an afternoon when he is hosting a big cookout. I’ll have them aim the ashes for the grill. A banner will flutter to the ground saying, “I’m glad to be here with you today in spirit. I hope this tasteless joke tastes good. Carl Henn.”