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!
