I smile—and occasionally chuckle—when walking by this camper sticking out into the alley separating Cleveland and Maryland, not far from our old University Heights apartment. My Maine hometown is the same name, which I admit is part of the appeal. Brrr, in Caribou, its 3 degrees Celsius (37 F) and raining as I write from warmer San Diego, where the evening sky is partly overcast and the temperature is 13 C (56 F).
The camper’s vintage is unknown to me, and who could guess from the little visible from the alley? But the thing is loved—looking at the pristine wooden door—and source of the owner’s pride. Otherwise, why let the branded top front boastfully hang out in view?