The first year begins ~

It begins with a phone call at 7:30 am which jars me from a deep sleep. It's mom's visiting nurse, Lorraine who shows up every morning for a short follow-up physical and to dispense meds. She tells me that mom, who is 82 years old, needs additional evening care because she suspects she is not taking her night meds. My brother John, who is devoted to mom, lives five floors below her in a lovely senior citizen's complex and keeps a close eye on her. I call and ask if he will check on mom in the evenings to be sure she takes her meds. He says he has tried but she keeps hiding them and every night, it's a hide and seek game. A few wks. later, John, frustrated, pleads for help. We need to talk, he says. I need to be there. Even though I had just visited a month earlier during the holidays, I agreed to make the trip if he would pick me up at the train station. Here I go once again. How many trips over the last 40+ yrs? The familiar ride easily done in my sleep. Rural beauty of rolling hills, lush green, velvet vegetation, stark blue skies, oak, maple, willow, birch, walnut, chestnut trees dappled with sunlight or bowing low with ermine snow or silvery ice . To my hometown. A lovely, quaint New England college town, nestled in a valley, surrounded by a small mountain range. A spacious quilt of rich farm land. Cultivated fields made fertile by the mighty Conn. River, producing the finest tobacco leaves for rolling cigars and a cornucopia harvest basket of the finest potatoes, onions, asparagus, cabbages, corn, green beans, etc., feeding families along the Eastern Coast.  Cherry, pear, golden apple trees laden heavy with sweet fruit.

The residents like to call it a city, but what is a city without a train station? Yes, there was one when I was a kid. On lazy summer evenings, we would sit on the porch and count the passenger and cattle cars slowly chugging along the tracks. It's train whistle was our alarm clock. Even then, I yearned to go where they were going. Sometime in the '60's, the station closed and became a depot restaurant. How convenient for all those college kids and travelers like mself. Who's bright idea was that? The airport was in a neighboring state and the closest train station now 25 miles away. From Penn Station, a comfortable ride since Amtrak took over. The other choice? A crowded bus from Port Authority. My destination? A small wood shed used as a bus stop, kept cozy in winter by a vintage pot belly stove. A pit stop for Greyhound, Trailways and Peter Pan. "Relax and leave the driving to us." The shed but a short walking distance to mom's apartment. My Guardian Angel must have been protecting me on all those bus and train rides during those many years, because not once was I ever in an accident during the seasons and all types of weather. No sense in complaining about this mode of travel. This city gal never got her driver's license and never needed it...until now.