That daughter of mine...
Waved through the fence from the parking lot, and not five minutes later sent a photo to that Besties chat of ours with a text that said...

"And she's off! With a new friend, of course."

And she wasn't wrong. Walked to the train with a young man named Moses, whose grandmother's name is Mary, and in the five minutes waiting to board, Moses shared his story.

A story of frustration. A story of bad breaks. A story of hard knocks. Hadn't been able to get home to Chicago in a year. Hadn't seen his mom in seven months. It had been hard. He missed her. He missed his family.

But he was hopeful. Hopeful that this trip was the beginning of more trips. A positive change for a more positive future.

Sat by a woman riding from Denver to Chicago. Chatted while we indulged in butterscotch candy, she sharing her story. A story of choices. Former choices that caused pain. Former choices that caused health issues. Recent choices that turned things around. Recent choices that made her hopeful.

Three hours in, the sun began to rise. Riders began to stir. The car began to come to life.

Travelers stood. Travelers stretched. Travelers smiled and started to chat. Laughter filled the air as people bonded over coffee and snacks. And when this old gal reached her destination, this new traveling family wished her well.

An hour later traveling-me pulled into the driveway at home. Found that husband of mine in the backyard feeding the birds, and suddenly she was hopeful. Hopeful she'd hear the words she wanted to hear.

The words he always utters when she gets home from a trip. The words he always says after a big "hello" hug. The words she heard after he set the birdseed down...

"I'm hungry. Do you want to get something to eat?"
​
And this old gal... agreed.

The time had come that this old gal had been dreading...

Time to leave that daughter of mine. Time to say good-bye. Time to get up at 2:30 a.m. for a 3:27 a.m. departure.

Hopped out of bed when the alarm rang. Adrenaline pumping. Grabbed the bags, tamping down the "sads," and was ready to get the show on the road.

Got to the terminal a little early. Two others already there waiting for the California Zephyr: a young man and a conductor ready for his shift...

Who raised his voice to explain a few things before the train arrived. Like where to walk when boarding. How to take our seats. Protocol of night travel: no talking, no videos, no phone calls. And a warning that armed men would be boarding in Omaha looking for "drugs and people."

And he was not wrong. Rode the 20 minutes to Omaha and there we sat an hour and a half waiting for the agents to arrive. Waiting for them to search for the "drugs and people."

And, not gonna lie, saying they were searching for "people" made an old gal's heart go pitter-pat.

Because what did he mean by "people"? The people with the drugs? Or different people. Like the Amish families people? The man with the Indiana Jones hat people? Maybe the guy across the aisle with the CPAP machine people?

Or was it something else? Was it the homeless man who hadn't bathed in a long time kind of people? Or was it people with last names like yours truly—check the travel log and then check out those people.

Whatever it was, the hour passed without incident. Men walked through with flashlights, and had it not been for the conductor in the terminal, there was no explanation.

The woman in the next seat, heading from Denver to Chicago, slept through it all. Woke up just as the train was taking off again, and began a conversation that went something like this...

Her: "Where are we?"
Me: "We're still in Omaha."
Her: "Is that in the middle of Iowa?"
Me: "No. It's only twenty minutes from where they picked me up."

And with that she took something from her bag and said, "I think this calls for a butterscotch candy."
​
And this old gal, whose grandma aways brought butterscotch candy on trips, took one... and agreed.

This old gal...

Woke up at 6 a.m. Sunday morning to some texts. A bunch of texts. A bunch of texts from Amtrak. A bunch of texts from Amtrak saying her train would arrive 30 minutes late.

Which seemed strange because her train didn't leave until Sunday night at 3:27 a.m., which meant her train couldn't be delayed—at least not yet.

Unless, of course, someone goofed up the dates thinking Sunday night at 3:27 a.m. was actually early MONDAY at 3:27 a.m. and booked the wrong date...

Which is exactly what Amtrak-ticket-buyer me did, even though she checked and double-checked and triple-checked to make sure she had the times and days right.

Freaked out a bit. Panicked a bit. Felt stupid a bit—even though it wasn't that big of a deal. Just had to book a ticket for the RIGHT day and the RIGHT time, which should be easy peasy lemon squeezy, except it wasn't...

Because Monday's California Zephyr from California to Chicago was canceled—for like the first time ever—due to unexpected track repair.
So, lucky-me got to stay an entire extra day. And it was fun. Delightfully fun.

And so it is... in life. Sometimes, Someone Somewhere knows just what a mama's heart—that's not ready to say goodbye yet—needs... and then finds a way to make s*it happen.
​
And that daughter of mine... agrees.

Mama-me said...

"We should get a couple of hall trees to maximize your space. Hang coats on one and towels on the other."

And that daughter of mine replied, "What's a hall tree?"

Had to pause. Gasp a little, even. Did one of us hear that right? Did the other one of us just say, "What's a hall tree?" As in, she doesn't know what a hall tree is?

But you can bet your bottom dollar that innocent question-asker knows what one is now, because those few words set off a long story. A long, boring story about hall trees, and grandmas, and Grandma's hall tree.

Which was the most beautiful thing. Walnut, most likely. The wood glistening in the sun where it sat in front of a window, near the bottom of the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

Little me loved that hall tree. Don't know why. Probably for the same reason she loved all of her grandma's furniture—because it was her grandma's, and she loved her grandma.

Can picture the house but have no pictures of the house. Not really. Have holiday photos that focus on family, but if this old gal could go back, she'd say to her self, "Self, take a picture of every room and every unique feature: the pink toilet, the clawfoot tub, the marble-topped dresser, the crank telephone on the wall, the stairs where you played Hot Wheels, the closet where you played hide-and-seek, the walk-up attic where you spent hours looking through dusty old boxes. Because someday, when you're 64 years old and that daughter of yours asks you what a hall tree is, you're going to picture that place you loved... but you won't have pictures of that place you loved.

And so, we did order two cheapo hall trees, which came the next day. And after they were assembled, one of us took pictures, because you just never know what the future holds.
​
And that daughter of mine...agrees.

This old gal...

Has a gift—teetering on an obsession—a gift AND an obsession. And that would be she loves to organize. Clean and sort and organize and then clean and sort and organize some more.

Goes back. Way, way back. Little me organizing Barbie clothes. Trinket shelves. Underwear drawers. Growing up and organizing kids' toys, garage storage, the teacher desk. Line this up. Straighten that out. Such a thrill. So cathartic.

It's a gift that keeps on giving. A gift she gives every time she visits that daughter of hers...

Who works long hours and lots of weekends. Who had to work a couple of days during the visit—and mama me had free rein. Going overboard. Wiping this. Scrubbing that. Freeing every nook and cranny of lime deposits with a sharp pointed knife.

That girl of mine pitching in when she got home. Going through closets and storage totes. Parting with this. Parting with that.

And it felt good.

Good to know mama-me could help. Good to know she could take a little something off her sweet daughter's plate. Good to know she left a little bit of herself behind...

Or maybe DIDN'T leave a little bit of herself behind... but in a good way.
​
And that daughter of mine... agrees.

That Amtrak train...

Pulled into the Lincoln station at 1 a.m—a little delayed. Storms the week before causing flooding, trees on the tracks, electrical wires downed.

Only two of us got off—one woman there to work at the Huskers game and one mama excited to see that daughter of hers...

Who was waiting to give her mom a hug—which she did—kicking off a weekend of fun. Dress shopping. Grocery shopping. Birthday gift shopping.

Long chats over coffee, Korean food, cold meat sandwiches. Watched the Huskers Football play the Terps in Nebraska while that DC family of mine watched the Huskers Volleyball play the Terps in Maryland.

Crammed six months of missing each other into four days. Four heartwarming days. Four days of fun. Four days of making memories. Four days of wishing we lived closer.

But four days is better than nothing...
​
And that daughter of mine... agrees.

This old gal...

Felt pretty special. The Amtrak conductor telling her she'd been assigned seat number one. That had to be good luck, didn't it?

Lugged the bag up the narrow staircase, walked all the way to the front of the car, stowed the suitcase up top, plopped down next to a young lady who would be the traveling neighbor for the next six and a half hours, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Time to sit and relax. Play Wordscapes. Read a new book. Take a brief little snooze...

Which was more difficult than one would expect, because seat number one isn't exactly the winner it might appear to be. Lots of space since there's no seat in front, but terribly close to the entrance to the next car—the observation car—people coming and going constantly.

Which was entertainment in itself. Could actually see the large gap between cars as the doors swished open. Travelers tossed around in that little area like dice in a Yahtzee cup. The place where the cars attach twisting and turning, jolting and jerking...

Seat number one might as well have been on a roller coaster.

But a roller coaster with a destiny. A roller coaster full of good sports who smiled, and laughed, and made eye contact with each unexpected bump and bounce. A roller coaster taking each of us exactly where we need to be...

Where those we love wait excitedly and patiently to pick us up... even though it IS in the middle of the night.
​
And that daughter of mine... agrees.

Adventurer me...

Downloaded the Amtrak app. Ordered round-trip tickets... then started to fret.

Fretted about this. Fretted about that. Worried about this. Worried about that. What time to get to the station. Where to park. How to board the train. How to know where to sit.

How much luggage can you take? What size luggage can it be? Can you take snacks? Can you take drinks? Where's the bathroom? Does it even HAVE bathrooms?

Googled this. Googled that. Got some answers from Pretend Friend AI. Got others from those daughters of mine. Got reassurance from them, too.

"We're proud of you, Mom," they said. "You got this!"

And, guess what? That mother of theirs DID "have it," do it, figure it out—because each step of the way... someone was there to help—greeting, guiding, supporting.

Station agents. Coach attendants. Other travelers. A smile in every aisle.

And so it is... in life. Never fear when a friend is near.
​
And those daughters of mine... agree.

This old gal...

Did a thing. A surprising thing. An unexpected thing. A thing... suggested by AI.

It's birthday trip time. Time to travel west. Time to see that middle daughter of mine. Time to make more memories...

And time to cause some anxiety for the old man who stays behind to hold down the fort. Not because he'll miss his lovely bride—he will. Not because he'll worry about her driving that far alone—he will. But because driving trips to visit those daughters of mine... tend to be cursed.

Like that one time the brakes went out and the car had to be towed. And that other time the turbo charger went out and the trip was extended an entire week and cost an extra 1300 dollars. Not to mention the traffic and gas prices and the aching knees and back that result from a drive across the state of Iowa and then some.

So searched for airfare. Maybe it was doable. Maybe it was affordable. When what to my wondering eyes did I see? A suggestion. A suggestion from that nonexistent, pretend friend, named AI.

"Why don't you take the Amtrak?" said Pretend Friend.

The Amtrak? The Amtrak that has a station less than an hour away? The Amtrak that would drop mama-me off just a few blocks from where her Lincoln daughter lives?

Take the Amtrak? Why not?
​
And that husband of mine... agreed.

This husband and I...

'Experienced' the Crayola Experience at the Mall of America a few years back. Colored some crafts in the craft area. Enjoyed the interactive fun and games, and created and named our own crayons...

Which was a hoot. A memorable hoot. Such a hoot that one of us—because of the name of her crayon—became obsessed with the color—periwinkle blue.

Which in HER head will always be Marywinkle blue. Started noticing Marywinkle blue. Started buying things that were Marywinkle blue. Started to prefer to write with pens that were Marywinkle blue—or teal or cornflower or some version of that pretty color.

The drawback being—the Marywinkle blue pen is rarely sold individually, so to scratch that ridiculous pen-writing itch, Marywinkle-blue-loving me always had to buy a multi-pack resulting in tons of sad little pens that just get left in the drawer... Until...

What to my wondering eyes do I see? In Walmart? A display. A school display. A school display of the beloved G2 .07 gel pen sold—drum roll please—in color packs. And—throwback to the teacher days—if there's one thing this old gal loves more than Marywinkle blue—it would be colored pens...

And so it is... in life. A blooming flower. A wave from a neighbor. Discovering the existence of the Marywinkle blue pen multi-pack. Celebrate the little things. Life is full of them.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.