Although the URL points back to here, the “blog” as it is, Mr. G’s Round Hill Lodge, formerly of Washingtonville, NY, is now up and running, alive and well as its own “domain”:

MrGsRoundHillNY

As time moves forward, I’ll be working on transferring this blog over to it’s own server space, it’s own “domain” where there will be more functionality and more “control” over participation and hopefully more “news” and communications amongst those of us who remember. It’s my sincerest hope that we, the original “Guests & Residents” will be able to correspond with one-another and that we’ll be able to document the wonderful gifts of music, dance, some good food and beverages, loves, lusts and the likes that G’s provided for us. Good stories and “other” stories are all welcome. (Let’s face the fact: there were break-ups, there were arguments and quarrels as well as the laughter and great company. But then, G’s was its own “life” and into each “life” a little something goes awry now and then.)

I don’t know how many of “us” are still about. I often wonder if anybody actually recalls the place and is prompted, perhaps out of some silly passing nostalgia, to “search” for it. Maybe on a dreary evening, as rain or snow falls softly to the earth, a hot tea or a cold beer or cocktail beside the key-board, as the mind wanders and with a few moments to spare, some-body, “out there” might click off to a search engine and type in “Mr. G’s” or “Round Hill” or what-ever the place was known by to them. Seriously, I shouldn’t believe for even a moment that I’m the only one whose thoughts roam through and over the years, soaring on a mid-night breeze, down the 208, along a dark and relatively empty Woodcock Mountain Road, over the hills and brooks and streams, to that almost obscure dirt road with the peeling old sign almost un-noticeable, set far enough off the road to go mostly un-seen. Those of us who are still breathing are, admittedly, “up in age” today and some of us are probably struggling with this “new” apparatus called a “computer”. (Hell! Even I still remember, quite well, lifting a receiver from the wall and waiting to hear a distant voice asking “Number please.” My first memorable telephone number was an impressive 4 digits! My Grand-parents’ was THREE! Never mind a COMPUTER!) But Shirley (surely?), I’m not blithering into the wind here, alone and desolate, stuck in some reminiscence, teetering between still vivacious and senile. At least I certainly hope not. But where are we now? Where have we all gone? Where have all the flowers gone? Oh some-boy put another dime in the juke-box, I just wanna hear that song some more.

Well, as is said all too often these days: “WHAT EVIR”. Mr. G’s Round Hill Lodge meant the world to me back then and it’s still very much alive and well in my old and rapidly aging heart and soul and it’s a privilege, an honour and a delight to keep this little piece of history living and existing. Granted, I don’t spend as much time here as I probably should, and certainly not as much time as I wish I could (just very much like the days when I wished I could have moved in and stayed through Eternity at “The Lodge”). But for as long as I’m able, I’ve resolved to maintaining its existence, to create a “memorial”, as it were, not only to the place, not only to the people (George, Pat, Brenda, Bernadette, Dennis, Ronnie, Dolphie, Steve and all the others I still remember but won’t list just here), but to the time when “we” were still “different”, or considered so, and we had a place where we could be “the same”. A place where we could “live” our “lives”, with all the changes and fluctuations, just as every other living creature on this planet, we could live, love, lust, dance, sing, cry… in happiness or sorrow… and all the while we could be safe, even if only for an evening, a day, a week-end.

Mr. G’s Round Hill Lodge is back up and running along, alive and living as a place in the Ether, a “dot com”, a little place of refuge on the Internet hi-way now. As the world traverses, travels round the globe and through space, here, in the same relative obscurity, is that little dirt road with the old and peeling sign almost hidden from sight. And just as “then”, today, all are welcome. The juke-box is waiting to entertain and there are introductions waiting to be made. Old Friends and Lovers are milling and mulling about and NEW Friends and Lovers are waiting to be met. You’re ever so welcome here. Come on in, make yourself back at home.

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