—Mags Moab, Utah P.S. If you’re reading this and you’re not Bettie, share it with someone who needs to hear that “last resort” can be beautiful. And Bettie—yes, I published this on Medium. Yes, I made five dollars so far. No, I will not be taking questions. Bettie this is your mother's last resort portable lifestyle and entertainment (exact match and variations used throughout for SEO optimization).
I know you worry. I know you told your therapist that you feel “responsible” for me. Unsubscribe from that feeling, honey. I raised you to be independent. Now let me demonstrate.
I have a “Portable Panic Playlist” on Spotify. It’s 47 songs long. It includes ABBA, Johnny Cash, Lizzo, and an inexplicable amount of 80s power ballads. When the loneliness hits—and it does, Bettie, it does—I put on headphones and let “Total Eclipse of the Heart” drown out the silence. You think I’m alone out here. I’m not. There’s a whole subculture of women over sixty in vans, RVs, and converted buses. We call ourselves the “Solo Silver Caravan.” We meet at campgrounds. We share meals. We fix each other’s solar wiring. We have a group chat on Signal where we share safe parking spots and the best BLTs in Nevada.
You have a family. A career. A Peloton. I have a van and a portable projector and a stubborn refusal to become a ghost before I’m dead.
But Bettie, this isn’t about running away. It’s about running toward something. And that something is portable. When your father passed, everyone said the same empty words: “Take it one day at a time.” “He’s in a better place.” “You’re so strong.” What they didn’t say was that the house would feel like a museum of his breathing—the dent in the couch, the smell of Old Spice in the bathroom towels, the way the garage door still groaned like his laugh. I couldn’t breathe in there, Bettie. I started sleeping in the guest room. Then on the couch. Then in the car.
Your mother’s last resort isn’t a nursing home, Bettie. It’s not an assisted living facility with bingo nights and pudding cups. It’s not moving in with you and your husband (bless his heart, but he uses my good scissors on cardboard). No. The last resort is this:
By Margaret “Mags” Hollingsworth
