I recently turned 55, officially becoming a senior citizen, I believe. But I have yet to find a restaurant that will give me a senior citizen's discount; they say I must be 65. I must be patient and wait another ten years.

When it comes to the pleasures of the world, I definitely do not fit in. While others bask in the sunshine on a beach in an exotic, faraway place, my idea of a good time is to go to yard sales on a bright summer morning.

Oh, we have taken our children to Disneyland, and they have frolicked in the waves at Newport Beach. But it was in early January a few years ago, and we caught the plane later that day to return to the frigid temperatures of Utah. Although I hate winter, I love our home; it is where I want to be. It is warm and comfortable and full of light. It is Home.

It isn't that we haven't tried living like normal people in regard to vacations. Two days after our return from a visit to Nauvoo a few years ago, I was driving home from doing errands. It had been a relatively safe excursion, my stopping at only two yard sales, buying only a gerbil cage, loaded, for three dollars. At home, my husband, Micheal, said "no" to the used-only-twice, $125 tent for $40 that I'd been tempted to buy.

But I had also seen a 30-foot motor home for sale, for cheap. Had it not been for the fact that we'd just spent $135 for two nights at a motel in Nauvoo, and had it not been for the fact that I've always said that my idea of “roughing it” would be a well-stocked motor home, I might not have stopped.

At home, Micheal said not to bother to call about it, but I was curious to see the inside. It was a 1977 Leisuretime and had only 58,000 miles on it. It had all the stuff—bathroom, etc., including a "newer" (so we were told), $3,000 Onan generator.

Although I was interested, my husband wouldn't even come with me to see it. "Well then, let's take it to him!" the sellers said. So I led them home in my car, and when the monstrosity pulled up in front of the house, Micheal came out. (Later, his comments were, "You've come home with some strange things before, but this takes the cake!" And, "I should have let you buy the tent.")

Even though he recognized a bargain, he still drug his feet. The guys kept lowering the price if we'd buy it right then. Finally, Mike said yes—"if only to resell it for a profit," I assured him. I wrote out a check for $3,200. (Later, when we tried to contact the sellers, we learned they were Gypsies; they had immediately gone to the bank to cash the check and then disappeared.)

Being so ignorant of such things and mechanical morons besides, I felt a whole lot better when my brother, an owner himself, came over a couple of days later and helped us figure things out and taught us about how things worked, and if they worked. He told us about various adapters and other supplies we would need.

Even so, we thought, "What have we done? We're not motor home-type people. We never even go anywhere!" And when my brother told us what kind of gas mileage we might expect, we knew we wouldn’t be going anywhere in it, except maybe to the KOA park on the Provo River, three blocks from our home. And, since we dislike having to maintain our current house and vehicles, the thoughts of having bought another house-and-vehicle combined, with all the potential for problems, was daunting, to say the least. So we decided to fix it up and resell it, even though then-seven-year-old Merrie Anne said, "If you buy it and don't use it and sell it, that's like cheating, isn't it?"