It had been a long and demanding four days in Saratoga. I had put in a lot of work and done what I could, but I was ready - more than ready - to go home and sink into a tub of hot water, slip into my flannel jammies, and hit the sheets. My son took me to the Amtrak station in Schenectady in time for the 2:55 Lake Shore Limited to all points West and sat with me until the train arrived, pretty much on time.
We watched a few other passengers struggle with their luggage, listened to a very young man carry on a lengthy conversation with his girl friend, repeating the same sentences until I was ready to shake the girl on the other end of the conversation. I read through a little history kiosk listing famous presidents and people who had stopped in Schenectady via train (Lincoln, Eisenhower, Teddy Roosevelt etal) and several stories of stupid people who got run over by trains after being warned to get off the tracks (why would anyone put that in print?).
Mark tried to help me up the winding stairs with my bag, and got too winded to talk (asthma), so we stood on the platform for a few minutes, saying our goodbyes, then I stepped up the skinny metal stairs and was whisked out of site on my way to home and rest. I listened to my iPod most of the way, leaning my head against the pillow I shoved between the arm of the chair and the cold dirty window, letting the gentle rocking of the car bear my weight like a swinging hammock.
I was nearing home when Kiel texted me to see where I was. I had made arrangements with a friend's husband to take care of fixing my car brakes that badly needed attention, and I was expecting Kiel to pick me up with the newly fixed car (gulp, hope I have enough to cover the repairs that I have been putting off for well over a year) and ferry me home to bath and bed. I was so tired my eyelids hurt.
Turns out my friend's husband, who had overseen the brake job had invited us to his place for a home made dinner which my friend was preparing as Kiel and I talked. At first, I was so tired, my spirit sank. I was filthy from having done so much scrubbing and cleaning, my clothes were a mess, my hair hadn't been washed in days. I sighed. I just want to go home. I appreciate their thoughtfulness, but I am not up to visiting anyone. In fact, I would rather no one saw me in this disheveled condition.
Still, she is an excellent cook, and the decision had already been made and I was not given the option of backing out, gracefully or otherwise. Only one glitch to overcome - some kids were playing on the tracks near the station in Rochester and we sat prisoners on the train for a good half hour while the police cleared the problem up.
By the time we arrived for dinner, it was dark. Maybe no one would notice my appearance. We entered the house and the patient cook came to greet us. It smelled so delicious and was so warm and cozy inside that I forgot my tiredness and welcomed the opportunity to break bread with friends and family. I didn't even realize I was so hungry. She had made chicken soup and bread - wholesome, hearty and perfect.
I slurped it down gratefully. I hadn't even considered what I was going to do about dinner. What a treat to have a down-home cooked meal with uplifting conversation. A touch of normalcy after days of heartbreak and brokenness. It was a tonic in so many ways. Thank God for thoughtful people who know what you need even before you know yourself.
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