She Dreams in Ruby
aka The New Adventures of Ruby Doo!
And just like that, she’s gone.
One day last week, I posted an ad announcing the sale of Ruby van Jangles. The next afternoon, I stood at the window of my cousin’s place and watched my old ruby-colored home and her new human, grin like a dish to catch the mischief in her eyes, slide out of sight.
I let the curtains fall closed. Sat. Stood up. Looked around. Pulled back the curtain and looked out, onto the empty street.
“I’m happy sad,” I heard myself saying out loud, like grabbing for a handful of dust particles dancing in sunlight.
I dream in Ruby.
Her curtains. The way dawn would spill through the crack I left open onto my cheek, the scene I could unveil with a sweep of my hand playing in my mind like a prelude. I’d yawn and reach up, open them—onto fat barrel cactus and long-fingered mesquite, onto sky filtered through pine boughs, onto sea lapping shore and swaying marsh grass, onto a roiling river, onto javelinas and wild turkey, onto honking geese and gauzy pink clouds, onto distant ice fields. Every morning since Ruby left, I’ve seen those curtains behind closed lids.
Did I tell her everything she needs to know? My next thought. I mean her new human, Witchy Mama, not Ruby. Ruby knows.
Truth is, it doesn’t matter. “She’s like a kid in a candy shop,” her son-in-law told me the first time I returned to Witchy Mama and Ruby after they disappeared down the street (at his place a few blocks from my cousin’s) (to get a signature we’d forgotten).
“I’ve been crawling around in her,” she added, her eyebrows bouncing in agreement. “Can’t wait to see what else I’ll discover!”
And when I left, she threw her arms around me and whispered, “Thank you.”
She’s the beauty AND the beast.
“Meet Ruby the van,” the ad began. “Ruby has a whole lot of perks and a whole lot of quirks.”
There followed four long lists, quirks and perks both mechanically and in the house.
“This old gal has been my home for five years,” I concluded. “She’s been steady and reliable and a great adventurer. She’s the beauty AND the beast. I've upgraded to a larger van, but I’m a bit sad to part ways. I’m hoping she’ll find someone who can appreciate her and maybe needs just such a quirky situation.”
I returned to the ad a bit later to add this note: “PS. She’s a bit famous on Substack.”
“I’m gonna give you a wood soap bath.”
Witchy Mama cooed these words the first time she sat in the driver’s seat, caressing the wooden panels around Ruby’s dashboard.
I knew right then accepting the offer was the right decision.
I’d been less sure when Witchy Mama’s granddaughter first reached out, saying she was inquiring on her grandma’s behalf. You saw the part about no AC, right? I wrote back, emphasizing this applied to cab and house alike and noting my concern. Not to worry, she assured me, her “quirky grandma” didn’t care about that.
OK, I said, unconvinced. I love Ruby the van with all my heart and have tolerated the rough days to get to the amazing ones—the painted road between two national parks near the top of the globe; the sunset on a wooden dock next to a surprise of palm trees, an oasis in a vast desert; uninterrupted weeks like a full body sigh among the heady smells and gentle breezes of a forest. But the rough days can get seriously rough—cooking-from-the-inside-out rough, must-find-higher-ground-shade-more-ice-now-panicky rough.
And then I met Witchy Mama. Feisty and independent and no newbie to road life (she’s spent years in an RV), she laughed off all my attempts to warn her about the heat or share with her the various hacks I’d tried over the years to cool things down. “I haven’t had AC my entire life,” she said. “And I don’t need it now.” Discussion over.
“She’s from California,” her granddaughter added.
I taught Witchy Mama the tricks to opening the doors. I showed her the mouse deterrent contraption I installed under the hood, the half-built sink system I’d never perfected, and the absolutely-perfect-from-the-get-go (when I commissioned a carpenter friend to build and install it) indoor/outdoor kitchen.
(“The third door flip out kitchen is the single handed most genius thing I’ve ever seen! You are god.” This, a response to the ad from a guy not even looking for a new van. He added that he plans to install a kitchen like Ruby’s on his rig. “Send me a photo,” I shot back.)
I explained how the sides of the “cabinet” (box) I’d built myself, not really understanding the ins and outs of carpentry, had settled and spread, making the top of the cabinet’s (lid’s) balance precarious with road vibrations. I showed her the solution that needed redoing, which I’d planned on doing, not expecting someone to swoop her up so quickly. No problem, she assured me. She met my notes about the need to replace the pin in the fan knob and the missing DC fridge cord with the same unconcern.
This is your trickle charger, your fuse box, the DC and AC plugs I installed or hung here or there, I said. And here are a shower and a shower tent and a little table and a sort of broken chest for storing things. And a heater and propane tank; don’t forget to open a window if you use it. Oh and the 5-gallon water tanks for potable water and the hose that’s definitely not for potable water and some extra interior paint.
Yes, yes, yes. She smiled. I could see plans painting themselves into cartwheels in her mind.
By the time the test drive was over, my old girl had already been given a slight name change. “I’m calling her Ruby Doo!” Witchy Mama declared.
“She’ll like that,” I said.
We two, Ruby’s loves—old and new—sat at a kitchen table.
This was when I tracked Witchy Mama down at her son-in-law’s for the first time, about an hour after she’d driven away, for the signature. She told me about her health issues, about losing her husband fifteen years earlier, about how now was the time; if she was going to travel and see what she wanted to see, now was it.
You’ve found yourself another adventurer, Ruby, another dreamer, I thought. Of course you have.
What I haven’t told you yet is that I didn’t plan on selling Ruby in the state where I met Witchy Mama. I’d left her at my sister’s up north when I started moving into Vivian. And I planned to sell her there. But to make a long story short, after sifting, meticulously, madly, maddeningly, through everything I own (spread across both vans and deposited at both my cousin’s and my sister’s over this past year of changes brought on by health stuff and, apparently, things accumulation) —after having found every other bit of important paperwork exactly where I’d put it—the title to Ruby remained nowhere to be found. This meant I had to return to the state where she was originally registered.
“This is Ruby’s doing,” I’d mostly joked. But what could she want? One last ride?
To the beach with a dog named Coco and Coco’s two humans, Ruby went.
Just after I arrived back at my cousin’s, Ruby in tow, she suggested a quick trip to the coast. Though I was tempted, my to-do list called.
“Take Ruby,” I said.
To get her one last ride with me by proxy. one last trip to the sea with the very person who’s generously shared her own home with me during my recent period of transition seemed perfect.
It had to be Witchy Mama.
As you’ve likely gathered, I did return to Witchy Mama and Ruby a second time—this time to pick up the jugs of spent radiator fluid I suddenly remembered were in a box under the bed. (A month or so back, a friend, with me as helpful assistant, installed a new radiator. I didn’t immediately take in where he pointed me. And now, though I’ve hit up auto parts stores and a recycling and toxic waste center that takes used oil and transmission fluid, I still haven’t found a place to dispose of the antifreeze.)
By then, Witchy Mama had already taken out the fridge and cleaned it. She was on her way to get a fresh set of sheets. “I’m sleeping in her tonight,” she told me.
“Let the adventures begin!” I cheered.
She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, contentedly.
“I’ll send the story,” I said. I’d already told her about you all—how you love Ruby, how you’ve followed her adventures, how you’d love Witchy Mama and Ruby Doo too and would be rooting for them both.
With that, I patted those ruby-colored side panels one last time. “Take care of her, Ruby girl,” I whispered.
Photo captions: 1. One of my favorite roads Ruby and I have ever taken—a back way into Escalante, Utah, from Arizona, with beautiful wide slot canyons to explore, no cell reception to distract, wonderful spots to camp, and nearly empty of people. 2. A view out Ruby’s window of Quartzite, Arizona, in early days of the Ruby years. Still looking for a spot to hang that mask in Vivian. 3. Sunset at East Beach in Santa Barbara, California. PHOTOS BY THE AUTHOR.
Thank you! Your likes and shares and restacks make me giddy. You’re like the views out Ruby’s windows—surprising and wonderful, soothing and brilliant, abundant and beautiful.
Thank you to new paid subscribers. Your support means a whole lot, and the Rolling Desk is very close to becoming a Substack bestseller thanks to you!
For the comments, have you had curtains you’ve loved? A view you couldn’t stop looking out on? Do you have a favorite road? Any messages for Witchy Mama and Ruby Doo?
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And before you go, some Caravan goodness!
— Are you a writer? Spots are left in my weekend bootcamp at end June on writing as play.
And, not only have we extended our “early-bird” discount rates in celebration of ’s debut, but also Marya Hornbacher and are bundling our weekend bootcamps.
Give yourself or the writer you love the gift of two weekends dedicated to your creative life. (These two courses are specifically designed to support anyone who may be feeling some kind of way about writing or writing/life balance.)
“Why Not This?” w/Holly - Fri, Sat, Sun, June 27, 28, 29, 2 hours each. (
$275$225) Feeling stuck in a rut? Blank page messing w/you? Would you love to create a piece that sounds or feels like nothing you’ve ever written? Try play! Let loose. Experiment. Open doors you didn’t even know were there! Discover how play can lead to seriously good work.No, You’re Not a Mad Genius w/Marya - Fri, Sat, Sun, July 18, 19, 20, 2 hours each. (
$275$225) A practical approach to finding balance between the highs & lows of creativity and daily life. Tackle core self-care practices. Pinpoint go-to habits. Develop strategic responses to attention, anxiety, disappointment, inspiration, & stress issues.Get both! ($200 each)
— Browse June courses and weigh in on what you’d like to see from the Caravan.
+ ***Paid subscriber perk this week: Chance at a complimentary spot in a course!
I’d love to offer three complimentary spots in one of the writing courses I’ll be hosting over the next three months to three paid subscribers.
In full transparency, I’d love your feedback. And I’d love, if you find the course valuable, for you to share your experience.
What a perfect person for Ruby to care for. I felt 'happy sad' with you.
Happy trails to Witchy Mama and Ruby!