First goal - to ride a train across a long distance - is officially in progress.  I'm sitting on the Amtrak as I write this pulling into the Lee's Summit station, about an hour shy of my final destination (Kansas City).  This morning, I had to pull myself out of sleep (an odd dream, Molly was caring for triplets and although she hadn't seen me in years, her first comment was that I needed to cut my hair), at an ungodly early hour.  I was well-compensated, though: sunrise hit St. Louis just as we were crossing the river, and the fiery pink behind the city skyline was gorgeous, borderline unreal.  We snaked through downtown and found the new station, which Amtrak shares with Greyhound.  I haven't been there in years, since Julian and Cameron came to visit me in Dittmer.  Six years later, maybe I am finally embracing that level of autonomy. 

Nervous about leaving his car in a spot he couldn't pay for, my dad took off almost immediately, and I sat in the station, staving off an appetite I was too tired to have.  (A chocolate muffin.  V8 Splash.  A snickers stored away against hunger pains I presumed would surface eventually.)  Twenty minutes before departure -- (how weird not to call it take-off, and to be able to use my phone, and to still practically have my feet on the ground), -- they called our number, -- 311, -- which sparked a thought of Jaci and a smile.  An escalator up and an escalator down, a trek past one train to another, a suitcase lugged up a cramped spiral staircase to the upper deck.

I settled my things, tried (and failed) to sleep, gained a seatmate (nephew or friend or ward to a couple travelling with their disrespectful son, who was decked out in hunting gear).  The upside to not sleeping is I'm only about 100 pages now from the conclusion of A Clash of Kings, which I've been chipping away at for ages.  The downside is the relative lack of scenerey.  It's Missouri in January; what would be scenery in other seasons is no more than barren wood this time of year.  But tiny disappointments are replaced with tiny surprises:  I could stretch my legs forward fully and never touch the chair in front of me.  The people who work the station are disarmingly nice, (think the polar opposite of the DMV stereotype), and the Latina woman working food service manages to be endearing entirely via intercom.  "I have hoagie.  Come eat lunch with me."  A man with spiky white hair leans over to the mother of the Disrespectful Hunter every few minutes to gell her a story.  "Is this a joke?" she asks each time.

"No," he says.  "This is true," but the first story was a joke -- and not a funny one -- so while she's genial, she's staying on her guard.

Three farmers go on a game show.  The announcer says to the first farmer, "For a hundred dollars, finish this phrase.  Old MacDonald had a  ___."  The first farmer says, "A duck?"  "No," the announcer says.  "Well, possibly.  Possibly, but that is not what we were looking for."  He tells the second farmer, "For a hundred dollars, finish this phrase.  Old MacDonald had a ___."  The second farmer says, "A cow?"  "No," the announcer says.  "Well, possibly.  Possibly, but that is not what were looking for."  Finally, he goes to the third farmer.  He says, "For a hundred dollars, Old MacDonald had a what?"  "A farm!"  says the third farmer.  "Correct!" says the announcer.  "Now, for another hundred, spell that word."

"E-I-E-I-O?"