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Along with companionship goes a kind of self-imposed exclusivity. Many parks cater chiefly to retired people, or to white-collar workers, or to couples with or without children. Scottsdale's Oasis Park draws the older, well-off people (no children, no pets). The trailer lots run to 3,000 sq. ft., on which owners park homes that are as much as 55 ft. long and 10 ft. wide (though manufacturers have models that are 85 ft. by 12 ft.). Best sites are located around the swimming pool-clubhouse circle, cost $60 a month v. $50 a month for outer-circle spots. Oasis also has a Catfish Row—way on the outside—for newcomers who can try out the park for a year before they move in. All the emphasis is on making the mobile home livable—and immobile. Residents labor over gardens, fill their yards with colored gravel (one man who used navy blue gravel was cordially invited to leave), delight in building elaborate additions. A "Chinese" cabana, for example, has peaked gables, Oriental bells, shrubs and decor, costs $24,500 (trailer extra).
Traveler's Urge. Curiously, the trailers are so big and expensive (up to $17,000) that only trucks are powerful enough to haul them for any sizable distance. Owners generally have long ago forgotten the trailer's original purpose—mobility—and are satisfied to stay in one place. But some still like the feeling that they can move on if they get the urge, and these buy small "travel trailers." At vacation time, they merely lock up the big trailer, hook the little one onto the car, and drive off. Conceivably, a family can have a whole telescopic Chinese nest of trailers that get smaller and smaller, depending on what kind of sub-vacations it has in mind.
To most trailerites, the home park is vacation enough, what with the planned activities, the relative economy, and the relentless companionship that trailer life affords. Besides, they like to keep busy improving things—adding split-level effects, extra rooms, breezeways, foundations. To the casual observer, the finished product seems remarkably familiar. It looks, in fact, like a house.