All of my Christmas decorations fit into a shoe box, and I didn’t even pull that out this year.

For years, I held on to traditions that no longer fit our full-time RV lifestyle. And the new traditions don’t need to be traditions at all. Every year, we can be in a new location, see new things, eat new foods, and meet great people.

We paid thousands of dollars for storage and moving expenses over the past 25 years, hauling around what we thought we could not live without.

Guess what? We can. And we can live better without the burden.

Everything about the holidays has changed for us. Our gift giving and receiving, how we decorate, where we go, and what we do.

The season is more about having experiences with family and friends, so I no longer shop and wrap myself to exhaustion.

It took a while, but the family now understands that we value experiences instead of stuff.

Photos of explorations replace gadgets and last minute “have to buy a gift”, gifts. Memories fill the heart so much more than an air fryer.

Holiday parties (mainly potlucks) are now attended instead of hosted. We travel to see family, or they come to us wherever we are, to have a little adventure.

I no longer need to hang and store decorations. Instead, we take evening walks around the RV Park or enjoy the professional scenes provided by local communities.

Last week, we attended Las Noches de las Luminarias at the Desert Botanical Gardens in Phoenix. Tucked within the desert landscape were world-class musicians, carolers, bell ringers, and, of course, hot beverages and snacks.

When I do buy gifts, it is from local artists, which is where that image above comes from.

Before we went to the Gardens, we enjoyed a little dinner at a local restaurant. This poet, Kevin Devaney, was set up on the sidewalk in Old Town Scottsdale. He uses antique typewriters to make tiny poetry books. Four of them fit into a matchbox that he creates by hand.

I bought one to add to my Christmas shoebox.

Next week we fly to spend Christmas with family. But there will be no packages in our luggage, only plans for adventure in the new year.

This lifestyle allows us to experience the different cultures that change with the landscape. And share those experiences with those we love.

So, if you ask me if I miss having the house and the traditional holiday, I would have to say no.

an RV Christmas Poem

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all down the lane,
Every rig had pulled in from the ice and the rain;
The hookups were tightened by lanterns with care,
In hopes that warm weather soon would be there.

The snowbirds were nestled in slide-outs and vans,
With visions of palm trees and big travel plans;
And Mom in her hoodie, and I in my cap,
Had just figured out how the dinette made a bed for a nap.

When out by the dump station rose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bunk to see what was the matter.
I bumped my poor forehead on overhead light,
Ah, the joy of small spaces on a cold winter’s night.

The moon on the awnings and fiberglass sheen,
Gave a shimmer of magic to our rolling home-scene;
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a caravan glowing with holiday cheer.

Tiny houses on wheels, all arranged in a row,
From fifth-wheels and teardrops to a vintage Winnebago;
With a little old driver in a dusty red cap,
Who waved as he checked his worn paper map.

More rapid than e-bikes his rigged-up truck came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Class A! Now Class C! Now fifth-wheel and trailer!
On Sprinter! On pop-up! On van-life retailer!

To the edge of the ocean! To the red desert wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
Like leaves chased by tailwinds to new southern skies,
We follow the warmth where the campground lies.

So down to the coast the nomads they flew,
With tanks full of fresh water and propane there too.
And then in a twinkling I heard ’round the park,
The soft hum of inverters lighting up the dark.

As I pulled on my flip-flops and opened the door,
Our whole tiny house seemed to shrink even more;
The hallway was inches, the ceiling was low,
Yet somehow it held all the life we could stow.

The fold-out, the fridge that is smaller than small,
The cupboards that threaten an avalanche fall;
The wardrobe that’s really just three hangers wide,
The storage that hides in each step, wall, and side.

His eyes—how they twinkled by LED light!
His cheeks windburn-red from the miles in the night.
His parka was dusty, his sandals were spent,
His rig bore the marks of each highway and dent.

He carried no sack, not a sled in his tow,
But a toolbox, some fuses, and duct tape in rows.
For gifts in this village of nomads and friends,
Were sewer hose gaskets and fresh water lens.

He spoke not of presents or shopping mall lists,
But of boondocking tips and good clearance on lifts.
He shared where the cell signal quietly died,
And the boondocking spot by the canyon’s red side.

He knew how to level on sketchiest ground,
And the best place to turn a big rig around.
He tightened a hose and reset our thermostat,
Then tipped his old visor and patted the cat.

And around us the neighbors strung warm fairy lights,
On awnings and antennas, a glow in the night;
With wreaths made of clothespins and seashells and twine,
And mugs full of cocoa, and cheap boxed red wine.

We gathered by campfire in mismatched chairs,
Trading stories of breakdowns and steep mountain scares;
Of times that we squeezed into spaces so tight,
You could open the door and be out of the site.

We laughed about living in just twenty feet,
How the bathroom and pantry and closet all meet;
How the bed is a table, the couch is a bed,
And the dog takes up more than his fair share of spread.

Yet in all of this tininess, nothing felt small,
For the world was our backyard, our ceiling the all;
From sunrise in deserts to seashores at dusk,
Our home hitched behind us in faith and in trust.

The stars over quartz sand were shining so clear,
As if they’d been hung just for travelers here.
No driveway, no chimney, no snowy front yard,
Just palm trees and wave sounds and crickets on guard.

Still, Santa, I’m certain, can find us tonight,
By the glow of our porch light and soft reading light.
He’ll slide past the slide-outs and kayaks on racks,
And step ’round the camp chairs and folded-up stacks.

No stockings were hung by a mantle with care,
But clipped to a curtain rod, two in the air;
A dog leash, a flashlight, a spare water key,
All sharing one hook in this life lived so free.

We’ll wake with the sunrise instead of alarm,
And unzip the blinds to that new-morning charm;
Maybe desert, maybe ocean, perhaps mountain view,
Each window a postcard that somehow came true.

So here’s to the snowbirds who follow the sun,
Who trade heaps of “stuff” for a life on the run;
Whose Christmas is measured in miles and smiles,
And nights under starlight on long quiet miles.

And as engines lie silent and campfires burn low,
We’ll whisper a blessing wherever we go:
“Happy Christmas to nomads in all tiny places,
And warm winter nights in your wanderers’ spaces!”

Author: I wrote this with an AI prompt, but it turned out so good I had to share!

It was so liberating!

Each dusty yellow lid I popped off from a stack of totes brought surprise and disgust. I was surprised because it had been six years since I had seen the contents inside. I felt disgusted because some of the items had been trapped in darkness for over 25 years.

Why did I need this stuff? Why was I paying thousands of dollars for a box of books I read years ago?

Many, if not most, of us full-time RVers have a storage shed somewhere. Maybe in your hometown. Or, in our case, a place we thought we would settle someday (which turned out to be three different places – Utah, Tennessee, and Colorado – over the past 13 years).

Someday has not yet come. But the storage bills did.

So, we made a big decision to give ourselves a yearly raise and rid ourselves of this burden. But it did not come without a bag of emotions.

Three of those totes held the remains of a library I had built while living in Alaska for 12 years. Not all of the library made it out of Alaska, but many did.

If you know me, you know I love books. But those books, many of which I found at secondhand stores, had become expensive to keep and impossible to shelve in a 32-foot motorhome.

I sorted through and touched every single one of the 300+ books. They were put into piles of spiritual, business, writing, travel, and miscellaneous.  I had three days to try to find them a good home.

Some were posted on Facebook Marketplace, where a charming person bought all the spiritual titles.

The rest found their way to a church back room, where the Friends of the Library sold books to help the local library. That felt like a good place for them to go.

Books were only three of the 30 totes and boxes.

I found my goat fur boots that I wore on special occasions in the Arctic. A local rancher bought them for her daughter.

I found my dragonfly-stained-glass lamp, which captured the attention of a couple who met us in the grocery store parking lot.

I found boxes of dishes and other random items that landed at a local thrift store, which donates proceeds to local charities.

But there was still more.

We rented a truck and drove eight totes 275 miles to my brother’s basement. We will be there over the holidays and want to distribute what is left to the family. You know, those special Christmas ornaments and family pictures.

Oh, the pictures.

A big task ahead is to discover what is on those VCR tapes with no labels and cassette tapes with road mix music Dad made for us 35 years ago.

More emotions are rising inside.

Then there are a couple of tubs with baseball and football cards my husband collected when he was a child in the 60s and early 70s. Luckily, we have grandchildren who are interested in seeing those.

It was tough getting rid of things I once thought were sentimental but had become more of a burden to our lifestyle.

It is all just stuff. Stuff that only meant something to me years ago. Stuff that current generations don’t want.

While we still have those boxes in the basement to touch once more, I do feel more liberated.

And I have decided to read more eBooks through my library account and slowly remove most of the books I carry around in the motorhome.

That one still stings a little!

How many of you still pay for a storage shed?

We are categorized as being “remote workers”, but I prefer to say I work from home.

This motorhome is my home. It is my sanctuary. When things get tough, I turn on my music and close the blinds. While the outside changes constantly, the inside remains the same.

It is comforting to me.

A couple of weeks ago, we were driving through Custer State Park in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Our goal was to see every lodge along the road. We like to “lodge it” and have done so ever since we lived in Alaska.

What does “lodging it” mean?

To be a candidate, the lodge needs to have a great room, preferably with a fireplace. Some have views to sit and ponder upon, and some have comfy rocking chairs next to the fire.

Historical lodges are my favorite. Those built from trees that were once standing in the very spot of the structure, and majestic fireplaces made from local river rock.

We spent many days reading in front of a large wall of windows overlooking Mt. McKinley at one of the Princess lodges near Denali National Park.

It’s also great if they have a coffee shop.

Back to our journey through Custer.

A couple of the lodges in Custer State Park had resident artists, like many national parks do. It was lunchtime, so we headed to the restaurant inside one of the lodges.

The flow of traffic to the restaurant took us first through the area where the artists were displaying their paintings and working on new ones. We stopped to see their work and say hello.

Assuming everyone in the lodge was visiting, they asked us where we were from. That is the question I least like to answer. (I need to figure out why it bothers me so much.)

We answered that we were full-time in our RV and travel around the country. So, we are from nowhere and everywhere.

He said, “So you are homeless.”

And he did not say it nicely. It was with a smirk.

That bothered me for the rest of the day.

Why do some people think we are in some way lower class because we choose to live the full-time RV lifestyle?

We live life by design.

We have a smaller footprint.

We are free to explore, learn, and have adventures.

We continue to work, pay our bills, and contribute to society.

This is my home, my office, and my sanctuary.

Perhaps I should come up with a more thoughtful answer when someone asks me where I am from. Any ideas?

I’ve learned to find joy in the little things.

Those mundane things we still need to do while living the RV life – like laundry and grocery shopping.

This week, we are parked at a KOA with a laundry room within walking distance of our spot. That was the first plus.

However, upon arrival, I checked it out, as I always do, and I discovered they have two triple-load washers.

Should I be this excited?

Last night, before making dinner, I was able to do all the laundry in the house. It’s been a while, and I am sure the odors must have become intense.

There is a phenomenon that masks these odors from us as we live amongst them. But it is there, masked behind scented candles, essential oil dispensers, and last night’s pork chops.

After 25 years of RVing, this is the first time an RV park has offered large capacity washers.

I find myself looking around for more large items to wash before we move next week. Rugs? Pillow covers? Curtains?

Find joy wherever you can.

Being back in civilization also excites me because of the numerous grocery options. I recently wrote how much we love Costco, but I also love “real” grocery stores. HEB in Texas is my favorite, but Kroger Super Stores are a close second.

I have to share a little story about that.

Back in 2017, we took our granddaughter on an extended RV trip around the western US. She had just graduated from high school. She was the first in our immediate family to do it straight through, so it was a big deal.

As we made our way up the coast from Monterey and entered Oregon, there was a Fred Meyer! I give it an exclamation because that is the Kroger brand that we used during our 12-year stay in Alaska.

Our granddaughter grew up there, so she knew it too.

We saw the store and had to stop. It had an escalator up to the second floor, which just wowed us!

Wayne and I were full-time, so we had nowhere to be. The plan was to drive our granddaughter back to Utah, but we saw the store in a beautiful Oregon coastal town and decided to stay.

After a few days, we drove her up to Portland so she could fly home.

Yes, a grocery store influenced us so much that we stayed for a few months.

Maybe the coast had something to do with it, too, but for today, we will say it was another little thing that brought me joy.