Too depressed to write anything substantive today. It happens, and I might as well log the gloom in this digital diary, lest I look back and see these days as one big, happy adventure. Just fighting the urge to crawl back into bed. But there are bills to pay, we have a houseguest in the next room, and Tom the would-be contractor keeps coming in the house for some reason, probably to pee. So the show goes on.
Here's a photo I found a while back of the Atlanta railyard as it appeared when Mom, Katie and I arrived there fifty-three years ago now.
And I do remember it looking like that, remember the noise and the bustle and the smell of old axle grease when we disembarked in the biggest city I'd ever seen.
As was usually the case when we were "transferred", Dad moved down from Charlotte ahead of us and found a house. We followed on the Southern Railway train a few weeks later. They gave Katie and me a nifty travel bag when we entered the passenger car.
Mine traveled all over the country with us over the years, until it disappeared along with a bunch of my other belongings when my parents divorced and I was sent packing to make room for Dad's new family.
I remember being served fried chicken in the dining car by a kind, smiling black porter in a white jacket. Would Katie have eaten fried chicken with me? She was only two. Do two-year-olds eat fried chicken? I haven't had one of those around the house since around this time in 2002, and just don't remember now.
Time for work, to the extent I can get this brain to function.
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