Today was a day full of work. I do that when the time draws nigh to leave where I have been. And in a day or so it will be soon time to depart. To leave the azure waters of the Gulf, the neighbors we have befriended here at Gulf Shores, and the Moon Pies of Dixie. Did you know that Moon Pies were originally an Appalachian snack for the deep-shaft coal miners but in Dixie their akin to the boll weevil or boiled peanuts? So it was time to re-caulk all the seams on the roof. You may think this an easy task but there are three roof vents, two air conditioners, a satellite, a sky light and two seams the entire width of the rig up there so this job took about six hours t0 complete. There were no leaks but it has been three years since this was last done and it just preventive medicine. In fact, I learned this from Darryl Deevers, the local mobile RV doctor. I had to summon Darryl to the rig a few days ago as I was testing my air conditioners. Yes, the temperature had been in the low 80’s the past few days and I needed to see that they were in proper working order. When I turned the rear one on, I smelled burning wires and worse. Since the RV is still owned by the bank, I didn’t think they were interested in a funeral pyre of thirteen tons of steel and fiberglass. Darryl to the rescue and only had to replace a capacitor, a thirty-five dollar item. I had to replace the front one last summer and should have had them both done at the same time…….but I didn’t. Lesson learned. Finished that job and then to polish the final two of the rigs rims. Can’t go down the road without that spit shine on the wheels. I’m reminded of years gone by when something like this wouldn’t be of any importance. Back-seated children able to find only boredom beyond car windows are nevertheless laying a foundation for meaning to arise one day when we’ll need significance far more than experience. And the work gets done and I’m hankering for the wind in my face, the the sound of freedom in my ears and the zone that a motorcycle ride puts me in. We hop aboard the Wing and head down Foley Beach Expressway till the road meets the water. Wheeling past beach icons and hotels, beachfront houses and eateries, we roll into Florabama and realized we have crossed state lines again. Time to turn back as the gnarls in the stomach are beckoning a late dinner. The look of leather may sour the restauranteurs of haute cuisine so we opt for breakfast for supper. And an out of the way Waffle House finds us as the only patrons. The waiter, the cook, and the hostess are all hungering for conversation other than eggs and potatoes. The seek our conversation to the point that ordering is an afterthought. I enjoy the camaraderie of people I never knew or may not know again. To travel and write about it is to have a reason for hobo(ing) through one’s life and sometimes through those of others, whether or not you’ve met them. Someday I might see you at a bookshop in Medora or Decatur or perhaps we’ve already met at a diner in Wellsboro. Each day lived gets subtracted from our alloted total, recollections may be our highest recompense; to live one moment a score of times.