Counting the Days

When I was working full time the other staff members had a joke that no one should be in the parking lot on Friday afternoons or they would be flattened. They knew I would be so eager to leave town nothing would keep me from it. I knew that if I left before the 3:00 rush I could pick up the dog and cruise home without major delays. I was counting the days; Friday night and I could be at the ranch in time for supper. And then there was Saturday and Sunday, all mine. Friday late afternoons there was time to check the gardens and the pastures. After supper I could go out in the dark and see if there were alligators in the pond or animals next to it. Away from the city apartment with the blaring streetlights and traffic noise, I could sleep well at the ranch in the lullaby of frogs and whipporwills.

In the weeks of vacation days I would say a private litany counting the days I had here at the ranch.

Even in retirement, I still count the days. Right now we are counting down to three days from now when we get on a plane that will take us to Paris for a two week vacation.

But really, I am counting the days until we return. I think about the vegetable garden. Will those tomatoes be ripe when we get back? Will the Mexican bean rollers have decimated those beautiful rows of bean plants? Will the lettuce be totally out of control and bolted? Will the cucumbers have wandered all over the row? And will Curley, our bull, behave himself, do what he's supposed to do, and not taunt our neighbor's bull?

I am loving the thought of going to Paris. We have rented an apartment in the Latin Quarter and we'll be there with family and friends. None of us are taking cell phones or computers, a bold move. If I have an outrageous need to be connected, no doubt I can find the neighborhood Pakistani internet place.

On day eleven, as on all vacations, I have a kind of melt down of homesickness. And I will count the days until I come home.