Because we live so far off the road, and own no property on the road system, our car has become over full of things one would normally keep in a garage. The rear hatch area has an organizer against the back seat that holds tools, laundry supplies, repair manuals, and emergency equipment in fairly good order. We keep two plastic trays available for our wet boots, and the shoes we change into when we reach the road, although the trays often fill with other items. We keep a container of energy bars, in case we need a boost before hiking in to the cabin too close to meal time. Through much of the year, a couple of snow shovels drape over everything. When we reach the car, the rest of the hatch inevitably fills with packs, either full of recyclables, laundry, or other stuff hauled from the homestead, or empty, waiting to be filled. About once a month pride of place goes to the big pack board, with a propane tank strapped to it for refilling.
The gear overflows into the back seat, where one space is taken by a collapsible cooler for cold groceries, although it’s usually full of books to be traded at the library. The foot wells have their share of seasonal accumulation: ice grippers, shoes, spare boots, water bottles. A layer of catalogs, taken from the Post Office box and deposited until it can be taken to the recycling center, covers everything.
Looking into our car from outside, you could reasonably assume we lived in it, except that there’s very little space to sleep. At best, we appear to be constantly moving somewhere.
Often, we do feel homeless, especially on days when our town errands conflict with the tide. Since Aly doesn’t drive yet, we try to coordinate her trips to town with our own errands, but often we find ourselves killing time until we can go home, either by visiting friends if they’re available, or hanging out at the library.
One of our bumper stickers sums up how we often feel quite nicely: “I’d rather be at the cabin.”