I wrapped up the four commissioned abalone shell paintings for my mother. I hope she likes them.
I packed my hiking backpack full of mostly books, and loaded my friend Overstreet's car with the wrapped up commissions. He drove me to a FedEx store, where I shipped two of the boxes to theri respective destinations. The third box, a homemeade box, did not make the cut in terms of box excellencerequired by the fed ex corpotation. I offered to make another box out of some cardboard stock that the had lying in the back, but to no avail; our cashier at some point had put her foot down and decided that she was not going to ship the homemade box no matter what. (unless SHE re-boxxed it in a wardrobe box for 24$. Street and I walked out and took our package to the post office, where we had no problem shipping it. Back at the spot, I had a glass of rum and coke with Patrick before getting another ride with Overstreet, this time to the Amtrak station.
My train left at 11:13. I'd bought a ticket for the wrong date digitally, but the kind man at the reception desk changed the ticket for me for a small (relatively), fee. I slept through the night, despite amtrak haveing the most uncomfortable seats in the world. In the morning, I went to the cafe' car. In line before me was a woman who I learned to be Dana. I ordered my food, and coffe, "I'll have what she's having". She was having a terrible muffin and a coffee. We sat near each other and made light introductions on the account of relating to one another about the poor quality of the muffins served on Amtrak. She invited me to sit across from her at a table at some point and talked with me about my education, and her experiences with working for Make a Wish Foundation, and her experiences as a healer (though she didn't use the word, I believe that is one way of describing her work) and caretaker to clients with mental disorders. She was kind and patient. Her business card says, 'Compassionate Home Care & Companionship'. She explained having to flip one of her clients over in bed and how she took a drive with the same client during a time of extreme mental discomfort. She drove him to where she grew up, near a country club pool somewhere in North Carolina. It was snowing and very beautiful. "I'm dying." he said.
Sometime during conversation, I missed my stop, and upon returning to my seat was enlightened to the fact by a frustrated railcar worker. "Yer on yer own boss", he said.
I got off at the next stop, in a town called Rocky Mountain. I checked my large hiking backpack in the station and went for a unicycle ride with my daypack to find the library, from which I write to you now. On the way I stopped into a little diner that served everything on styrofoam. I ordered and ate two eggs over easy, grits, and toast with a water. The interior of the diner was light with American Gothic wooden booths with tall backs. Light shown in through the window to my right. I lifted a fork from the set of white plastic cutlery from a white napkin, and stuck it into the center of a white egg beside white grits. I loved seeing the golden yolk, and mixing in the red hot sauce too. I left a five dollar bill and thanked the kind server.
