There are 85 million in the USA and more than 2 billion worldwide. More than 100 countries set aside a day in their honor. Every one of us had one. I looked up these numbers as I sat in an airport on Mother’s Day. My mother left this world a few years ago. I still hear her voice almost every day. I’m in North Carolina after finishing a weeklong trip with my 94-year-old dad and my brother David. Rusty, our youngest brother, couldn’t make this trip.

My Dad has been in an “old folks’ home” (his label) since my mom passed four years ago. Last year, he agreed that driving was too hazardous to himself and others. This was a big loss for him in a string of losses that further reduced his world. His mental acuity remains strong even as his physical ability diminishes. He’s getting less able to be out and about.

When we gathered for Christmas we discussed ideas to get Dad some relief from the sameness of every day. Each option we explored seemed to run into a similar set of physical limitations. Airplanes and cruise ships posed too many issues. Long car rides were equally problematic. The one option that seemed appropriate was a good-sized RV.

Motorized RVs, as opposed to towable trailers, are divided into three classes, named A, B, and C. The industry has very specific criteria for defining these classes determined by the type of chassis used to build the vehicle. Class A models are built on a bus or large commercial truck frame. Popular options include the Prevost, Freightliner, and Ford F-53 platforms. The higher end units are equipped with luxury features and are powered by diesel engines.

The smallest class, weirdly labeled Class B, is a modified cargo van crammed with sinks, refrigerators, toilets and eating areas that convert to beds. An extended roof allows for inside standing room. These units exchange interior space in favor of a nimbler driving experience. The Mercedes Sprinter, Ford Transit, and Ram ProMaster are the most common models used in this class. 

Class C RVs ride on a heavy-duty van chassis, which puts them between Class A and Class B vehicles in terms of size. The Ford E-350 and E-450 platforms are the two most common options used by manufacturers when producing these models.

There is an emerging fourth class, Class C+, also known as Super Class C. These are manufactured on heavy-duty chassis like the Ford F-550, Ram 5500 or Peterbilt. These RVs come with luxurious features and incredible towing capacity. They are very comfortable to drive as the engine compartment is well forward of the interior space.

My brother David used the website RVShare.com to search for an RV close to home with the right features and availability on the dates we needed. We rented this 29-foot Class C with a full-sized refrigerator, microwave, and oven. The two ‘slide-outs’ created a great living space. 

We loaded Dad, two dogs and groceries for the week into the RV and drove south to Myrtle Beach. We parked the RV at the Apache Family Campground. My aunt and her family vacationed in Myrtle Beach nearly every year. We often joined them. I stayed at this campground a few years ago when I began my exodus from Jackson Hole. The beach, the local restaurants and the campground brought back some wonderful memories of fun family times. A favorite local fish restaurant and bar touts the slogan "There are no bad days at Bimini's!"

The beach is spectacular. The onshore breeze over the cool Atlantic water keeps the temperature in check. The 1200-foot-long pier that extends far into the ocean is always crowded with fishermen looking for that fresh catch for the evening meal. The first day Dad walked up the steep switch-backed walkway. He was determined to show us that he had what it took to hang out with his boys.

Our daily routine started early with a cup of coffee and a quick dog walk. “Are we going out for breakfast or cooking something in the RV?” Dad asked everyday. David cooked several breakfasts. Afterwards, we’d drive around in the golf cart either in the campground or in town. Visiting the pier and watching the fishing was a regular activity. Time for lunch. Same discussion – eat out or in – we opted to go out for lunch every day. 

Back to the RV for a short nap, take the dogs for a walk and discuss dinner plans. Rinse and repeat. No pressure, no hurry, no agenda. Just enjoying our time together. Each evening, we’d sit outside the RV in canvas chairs and watch people returning from a day at the beach. The days ended with a friendly game of Texas Hold’em.

Golf carts are allowed to be driven in the daytime on city streets with a speed limit of less than 35 MPH. After lunch we’d drive through neighborhoods, past high rise condo entrances, hotels and restaurants.

A car pulled alongside one day, and the woman driver lowered her window and joked, “Well, there’s a golf cart full of trouble!” Without skipping a beat, Dad asked her to join us. She laughed and quickly drove away. How did she know? 

The days passed too quickly. We packed up the RV and got it ready for the trip back home. Dad slept most of the way, David drove. I sat lost in thought. What a fantastic experience this had been.

The next day, I dropped off the RV and went to the airport. Waiting for the plane, even though it was Mother's Day, I found myself thinking about Dad’s life. It is an amazing tale. He will be 95 this November. Dad and Mom were married for 72 years. When they first met, she lived with her mother, grandmother and younger sister. Both older women had significant health problems, and my aunt was just 13. Mom’s Dad died when she was 16. Mom was the head of the house and breadwinner. My Dad told me that the night he first met Mom, he went home and told his mother that he had met the girl he was going to marry.

Mom eventually said yes, but with two conditions – get baptized as a Catholic and promise to support all of them. A few short months later they were married. Dad was 19. My grandma Sadie and great-grandma Mileska lived with us until they died. Aunt Barbara lived with us until she was married. Adding three boys filled the house on Ralston Avenue. His has been a long life of service.

I’m Robert Eugene Bell’s son, Bobby. That simple thought carries the weight of a lifetime. For years, those words lived in my mouth with equal parts, pride and tension. Growing up, my father was a force—unyielding, asking for perfection. He was a young man raising children when he himself was still figuring out who he was. When I think back on those early years, I remember both the fear and the comfort he showed to each of us. He could glance at me a certain way and I’d feel my whole body freeze. That was the power he held, not because he was cruel, but because he didn’t yet know another way. His love for us was unconditional and the bedrock of the relationship we have shared all our lives.

This trip to Myrtle Beach was different. We spent a week together, and I saw a different man—not just older, but quieter. The bluster and the rage that once filled the rooms of my childhood had softened into something closer to stillness. It’s as though time gently placed its hands on his shoulders and told him he didn’t need to hold everything up on his own anymore. He laughed easier. He paused more. And for the first time, I saw the boy in him too, the one who never really had the luxury of being just a boy.

When he married my mother, Dad took on not just a wife, but an entire family. He carried the weight of providing for three sons, a partner, her sister, a mother-in-law, and grandmother. I don’t think I ever appreciated the scope of that responsibility. Back then, I just saw a man who came home tired and sometimes angry. Now I know that man poured every ounce of himself into making sure we had enough—enough food, enough clothes, enough safety, enough love, even if he didn’t always know how to show it.

At the beach, I watched him walk more slowly, speak more softly. I could still see the steel in him, but it had been tempered by love, loss and time. I realized I wasn’t just looking at my father anymore, I was seeing a full human being. Imperfect. Worn. Loving. Present. I think that presence, more than anything, is what I’ll carry with me. Not the fear. Not the silence. But the way the ocean air seemed to remind us both that we’ve come a long way.

Mother’s Day was established in 1919. Fathers didn’t get a day of recognition until 1966. I’m releasing this piece on Father’s Day as a tribute to Dad. Everything that I am today is because of him. As I sit here waiting for my plane, Mom’s voice still rings loudly, “I want you boys to love each other!” I whisper to my mom’s spirit that her wish came true, and for 70 plus years, the Bell Boys have hung together.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad, and to all fathers.

Stay well and travel often

Bobby