Fully retired once again. No work, no commitments, no time schedule. The sun once again has become my alarm clock. I enjoy the brewed coffee alone while Robin and Brutus continue to dream. A morning walk through the campground, around the lake gives time for reflection. My own contentment allows for thoughts to run rampant. I ponder on this freestyle life of travel and migration. You are no longer who you were. The new people you meet in your life don’t judge you for what you did, who you are, where you came from. There is no past to hold against you for no one knows of any. When you travel, you are what you are right then and there. All that is—is today. There are no yesterdays on the road. 
An hour goes by and my reflection is interrupted by others walking the park. We exchange pleasantries. There are always smiles. Back to the motorhome for granola and raisins. The roommates have risen and are stirring about. I notice the vast array of things out of their place and cabinet doors open. Uh oh! She’s on a downsizing junket again. I take my breakfast sustenance outside and declare that I need to get my dumbbell routine done. Perhaps this will keep me from another one of her cleaning projects. After a brief workout, I’m sure I’ve escaped the drudgery of housework. But as I weave my way back to the bathroom I see clothes strewn on the bed. Apparel that has not been worn in months, probably never will be and I’m instructed to rid my closet of items not used. The Goodwill angels are smiling once again. Robin was again correct. I can’t believe the things I still save and will literally have no use for in the future. Four bags of almost new items are packed and readied for others. This task accomplished and still only 10 a.m. Satisfied with a job well done, we decide to call it a day, and head for the links, as we haven’t played golf in almost two weeks. The schedule of always moving, always staying busy, has kept my mind from the imminent departure in a few days. The upcoming trip is not looked on as favorably as any other road trip. I only have six days until going under the knife. Two months ago, I put up a calendar counting down the days from 60. Crossing off 59 and 58, I pitched the schedule into the garbage. X ing out the days one by one would only give rise to thinking about this on a daily basis. Why ask for ill thoughts or depression. There will be time enough to think about surgery the night before. It is time to live for today.
No Yesterdays On The Road
End of the Line
We don’t usually work on Mondays but Jerome (park manager) asked us to work the cafe. It would be the season hurrah for the cafe. From here on out it only opens briefly on the weekends. Feeling it may be busy, he was sure we could keep up with the orders. Busy! Short order cook. Families came in droves and there was nothing short about any of their orders. This was the busiest day we had this summer. We’d expected that a lot of campers would be pulling out since school and work would be back in session the next day. They must have all decided to have breakfast prior to leaving. I didn’t have a chance to turn my back away from the grille except for an occasional greeting from the many patrons that I’ve befriended this summer. By the time I looked up and saw no more order tickets, it was well after 11. Three and a half hours of steady streaming orders and 143 customers served in that time. Going out with a bang was relished. I would have hated to have been bored on the last day. I’ll miss the cajoling with Jerome and the daily bantering. We’ve also enjoyed working with Mike, the Porkmeister. He made our transition as newbies go very smoothly, took me under his wing and showed me ropes I never experienced. I’ve learned so much from him. Also this past week, Robin and I were guests of Klaas and Judy (owners of the park). Klaas decided we would all go out to dinner. Apparently if you’re going to be invited back the following year, this is protocol. They picked us up at our site, and it was just a half hour drive to our destination. We dined at Emily’s Restaurant, 
a historic wayside manor, situated on Route 10 between Reading and Morgantown. The cuisine was sublime, the company comforting, and we were treated as celebrities. Klaas forced more food on us than we’ve been used to as of late. Even passing on dessert was not going to happen. During a lull in the conversation, just about the time the fruit and ice cream appeared, we were invited back for the following year. This is something that I’d never thought I’d do. That is to work in the same place two years in a row, regardless of how well we like it. Afterall, I’m the gypsy man. Moving all the time. But this experience has been unique. I’m not adept enough with the King’s English to do justice to describe the hospitality and the feeling of peace we’ve found here. My father was the most genuine of men that I’ve ever known. It was apparent to me that he would never have an equal. However, I have never been so impressed by someone as I am Klaas Bakker. It looks as if our rule will be broken. Our plans are to return again.
Seeking Discomfort
Today was a bit melancholic. It’s our last Sunday working here in the Gnome Cafe. Tomorrow is our last regular day of work as the season comes to an end. School is back in session, and the number of campers coming through the week won’t justify keeping the cafe open through the week. However, there still will be one more hurrah as we’ve agreed to provide the cuisine for the great Halloween fest at October’s end. It amazes both Robin and I how quickly the past three months have gone by and how enjoyable this work stint was. We almost feel guilty picking up our paychecks as working here is a labor of love along with being so much fun. This coming Saturday, we leave for Pittsburgh, as my brain surgery is scheduled for the following Wednesday. We plan on just relaxing and hopefully getting in some golf this week but that remains to be seen. After work, I headed out for my daily walk. I’ve been doing between five and six miles for the past two months. Never is the course on flat ground. It’s all hills, up and down. And I force myself to get out there in the middle of the afternoon, purposely when the heat is at its height. My sole purpose was to get myself in much better shape in order to rebound from surgery much in a more timely fashion. Dropping a few pounds may have been an added bonus but it wasn’t in the original scheme of things. I have been able to find the will to do this almost every day. I’ve missed only a few days when road trips back to Pittsburgh warranted doctors’ visits. But as I walk, this sense for surgery rebound has given way to a warped quest for discomfort. At my age, there are aches and pains daily. That’s normal with most of us. The knee hurts from an old football injury, the back from a surgical discectomy. My lungs burn as the rebuilt trachea is much smaller in diameter than it used to be. Lastly, the left hip still bears witness of the lady who smacked me to the asphalt while sitting on my motorcycle at the filling station. But instead of pampering these aches, I like to taunt them. I find that satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment emanates from a certain degree of misery. Without a modicum of pain, the effort seems useless. So I’ll continue up and down the hills of Lancaster county, in the heat of the day, changing nothing but adding to the distance. And sure, the discomfort will increase a bit each day. The aches accompanying each step but the trade-off is a greater sense of satisfaction for withstanding that distress. Ahh, what sweet nectar is the misery of hurt.
GypsyLarry
