When I was but a wee lass, I apparently got in the habit of spilling my drink at dinner. My parents got tired of cleaning up milk spills, and my dad finally warned me I was going to get spanked the next time it happened. (This was back in the day when you were allowed to discipline your child and when children actually had limits and rules they were expected to obey without justification from Mom and Dad, but simply because Mom and Dad said so.)

Being a klutz, an endearing trait that has continued well into my motorcycle days, I of course did it again one night at dinner. There was dead silence for a split second. Then, with utter sincerity I looked at my parents and squeaked "The room moved." Not only did I avoid a spanking, I think my dad had to hide his face behind a napkin so I wouldn't see him laugh.

Forty-odd years later I hoped that a similar excuse might work a miracle on my husband.

In a nutshell, while towing our 5th wheel through the repair shop trailer lot with our truck, I took a wrong turn and had to back the whole rig up. Driving forward with a 25-foot rig gives me hives, but trying to back the thing up put expressions on the faces of the guys watching me that were worthy of an Oscar. I ignored them and kept weaving backwards.

I finally backed up to an intersection where I could go forward, turn a corner and get on the right lane out of the parking lot.

In my utter relief at having survived backing up, I hit the gas and drove the whole contraption around that corner kinda like I was in a much smaller vehicle, a Porsche for example. Before I could say "Women can't back trailers" there was a screeeeeeeeeeetch of metal, three of our trailer windows were wiped out, the upper side of the trailer bowed in and my smooshed trailer was literally mated to another huge 5th wheel parked on the corner. I looked in the rearview mirror in horror and waited to wake up, puke, or drop dead . . . whichever (with the later being preferable). And when I didn't do any of those, I did the only thing left. I put my head on the steering wheel and started bawling.

We were supposed to leave to go camping in two days.

The phone call to Chris started something like this.

Me: "The room moved . . . I mean, the other 5th wheel that was parked up on its jacks took a huge LEAP into my way and . and . . . Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!"

Chris: "What are you babbling about . . . and what IS WRONG!!"

I knew if I was crying and said the word ?accident', Chris would assume I was in the process of being Life Flighted to the hospital. At that point though, I honestly wished that was the case.

Me: "I'm okay, I'm not hurt, but I've uhmmm, oh hell I'vejustsortahitanothertrailerinMillersparkinglotwithourtrailer."

Chris: "Can you run that by me again?"

Me: "Not really no."

Chris: "Do you want me to come out there?"

I looked in the rearview mirror at the immoral monstrosity behind me and wondered whether Chris would get off with manslaughter when he killed me.

Me: "NO! No-No!! NONONONONONONO! Stay home. Have a beer. Have two beers. Do not come here. Go to Alaska, take a cruise for a week or six but DO NOT COME OUT HERE. I can handle this. I've already called the insurance company."

Chris: "Insurance company? You mean this is bad enough to REPORT!?"

Right about then four guys had gathered around the scene trying to figure out how to separate the two trailers without bringing in a helicopter and a hoist.

Me: "Uhm, yeeeeah . . . you could say that."

The phone froze in my hand. Literally. The chill from Chris' voice caused little icicles to hang from my cell phone as Chris said very slowly: "O-kay, I'll see you when you get home."

"Not if I can help it" I muttered to myself. I wondered if it would be possible to drive to the house, sneak in the back door, grab all my pillows and make a bed down in the furnace room. My son might miss me, but I didn't think Chris would find me since men rarely know or venture near where the vacuum is stored.

I spent the next 40 minutes trying to tie up loose ends while the owner of the lot, a couple of service guys and a salesman (who I might add wasn't much help except for handing me a business card and asking me what I wanted in the way of a new trailer), tried to pry apart the two trailers and clean up the glass mess.

I sidled up next to the owner and asked if he wanted help picking up the glass now scattered on the lot. "NO!" he said. "Nope ? you just uhmmm, stand right there. Don't drive anything, don't touch anything, just . . . stand there."

I mentioned that I didn't want any ?dumb blonde' jokes after I left. He looked at me in all innocence and feigned ignorance. "Oh no, we would never do that." By the look on his face I knew THAT was a big fat lie.

"My husband's going to kill me." I said. The owner looked at me curiously. I said "Oh, c'mon, if it was your wife who did this, you'd be mad too."

"I don't have a wife. I'm divorced." He replied.

"Did you yell at her for something?" I asked.

"Oh no, I would never yell at her for something like this. I divorced her because she couldn't back the boat into the launch ramp at Lake Powell."

(Divorce lawyers and marine shops in the four corner states will testify that this particular issue has been the initiating factor for 75% of divorces and 90% of boat repairs.)

I stared at him. Now I knew I was a dead woman.

By now the two trailers were apart, all appropriate information had been exchanged and it was time for me to take the trailer home. It is approximately seven miles from the trailer lot to our house. I charted a route home that was approximately 360 miles via a slight detour to St. George, UT and back.

I reconsidered my route when I remembered the price of gas. So, in the interest of gas economy I drove the 10 miles home (a detour now and then didn't cost too much), at an average of 10 miles per hour. I obeyed all stop signs and imagined some at unmarked corners, stopped at all lights that were green just to make sure they weren't going to turn yellow, waved across all old ladies and people on crutches at crosswalks and stopped by the bank to read the time and temperature messages on the electronic billboard. It's important to be informed.

I pulled up to the house with the munched side of the trailer away from the house. Chris walked out, I ran in. I never really heard the scream since I was inside trying to find my pillows and a bag of Oreos. I did hear the front door slam shut as he came back in.

Chris: "We are NOT going camping."

Me: "Why?"

Chris: "Whaddya mean "Why?" Look at the trailer! And what are you doing with those pillows and Oreos?"

Me: "What pillows? Oh THESE pillows? Nothing. Look, the guys at the trailer lot told me with a little Gorilla Tape® and some cardboard, maybe a little sacrificial ceremony, we could make it through a camping trip . . . if we didn't go over 55 mph and . . . and

And . . . it wasn't working. I felt horrible. I apologized profusely. I reconsidered taking that trip to St. George. I stocked Oreos and milk in the furnace room. I sacrificed an artichoke to appease the gods while remaining a supporter of the Humane Society.

Nothing. Despite every argument or apology I could muster, Chris still refused to go and offered to set up a mini fridge in the furnace room.

I tried another tack in desperation.

Me: "This is all your fault anyway."

Chris: "WHAT?"

Me: "All these years, and you've never let me drive the 5th wheel on a trip. You refuse to relinquish that wheel because you're such a GUY, and then you hand me the whole rig and expect me to negotiate it like I know what I'm doing. It's your fault."

Chris: "So you ADMIT you didn't know what you were doing."

Hmmmm, a little flaw in the execution of my plot here. Regrouping I sink my little fangs in another spot.

Me: "Right. That's your fault too. How can I know what I'm doing if you don't let me learn!"

Chris: "I don't believe this."

It was a weak argument. I've driven horse trailers so I've got some idea of how to haul. Although in truth, I'd never driven something the size of our 5th wheel in tight situations and truly didn't realize how wide you have to turn. Spatial orientation dyslexia I suppose.

But Connor wanted to go camping, I wanted to go camping, and the trailer was in working order. It didn't look like something out of ?Trailer Weekly', but it was campable. Chris however, remained quintessentially immovable in his stubborness decision to not be seen hauling the pitiful thing.

In desperation I delivered the coupe de grace. I told Chris I was going camping whether he went or not.

Chris: "You're WHAT?"

Me: "You heard me. I said I'm going camping with or without you. And I'm taking the good truck and the 5th wheel."

Chris: "HA!! Yeah, sure whatever."

So I went and bought a couple of rolls of super duper Gorilla Tape®, sheet plastic, cut up some cardboard boxes and cleaned up the glass scattered inside the trailer. I spent a few hours bandaging and sealing that puppy up ?till it looked like Frankenstein's trailer. But by golly, it was waterproof.

Chris started looking nervous. He knows me well enough to know I'd do what I threatened, even if I can't drive a cow to water. If I went alone, I'd have to not only drive the trailer out to the desert, but park it amongst a whole bunch of other trailers in an area with trees, ditches and sand, set it up alone and haul it out ? assuming it survived the trip out that is. He couldn't forbid me either, much as I knew he wanted to.

As a final touch, I put a sign out on the trailer "Yep, the blonde did it" and carried on with my plans.

Chris couldn't stand it anymore.

Chris: "I'll go."

Me: "Not if you plan on being onry about it you won't."

Chris: "I said I'll go. I won't have fun, but I'll go."

Me: "Oh, you can see into the future now? This is great honey ? let's go to Vegas instead."

Chris: Quit being a smarta@#!!

Me: Quit being such a GUY about all this!"

Chris: "Hmph."

So we made a deal. I would never drive the 5th wheel again, even if he broke both legs out riding and I was the only driver left alive on the planet. And he would not say one single word if my duct tape masterpiece came apart, or blame me for anything else that went wrong on our trip.

Oh . . . and he WOULD have fun.

Which we did.

So now, years later I have answered my own question from my August 2000 article. "Can Women Back Trailers."

The answer is . . . yes, of course we can. What I can't do however, is drive one forward.

I don't spill my milk any more though.

Kim Orndorff.