Remember I mentioned how we were located close to the railroad tracks? Well, last evening, just after it got dark, I heard a knock on the door in the back vestibule. I was fairly certain someone was there because the only people who ring the doorbell in back are the kids, whose purpose it to get the dog barking and me to come to the door. I have learned to ignore the rapidly repeated rings; the dog has not.

There was someone standing there – a young woman in a longish coat with a headscarf and a dated-looking satchel. In fact, I was surprised to hear myself think satchel. She said she was from “the old country” – when was the last time you heard that phrase? probably in an old movie – and had apparently fallen off the train and had nowhere to go. Could I put her up for awhile? She said she would work to pay for her keep and she looked as if I were her last hope . . . but that if I turned her down, she would dig deep in her satchel for a hint of more hope. Oh, and her name was Dagmar.

So, when I said all my rooms were full, I also said that maybe we could move the jigsaw puzzle table out of the furnace room and put a cot in its place. “It’s warm in the winter and cool in the summer,” I said. This morning, I am wondering why I added that since we were only talking about a short layover of a stay – a catch your breath and regroup stay.

While we were getting her settled in, I remembered the surprise I had felt earlier and asked, “You  APPARENTLY fell off the train?” She said that yes, she figured  the car had jolted and some books being shipped slipped out. “And you, too,” I added, half-statement half-question. While tucking in the blanket at her end of the cot, she nodded and told me yes, and explained that most parts of the  books had been  torn apart but she was on had floated off into the grass of the right-of-way.

I expressed amazement that she wasn’t hurt and suggested that she be checked out. She said she was fine and wasn’t really aware the accident had happened until she found herself on the ground with torn books nearby. Actually, she didn’t remember the accident; she surmised it.

You remember nothing? I asked . . . and she thought about it and said, “Well, I remember Mama.”

In the middle of this past night, I awoke and thought about that, and then I thought of some of the other regulars who have shown up at the vestibule door, stayed a while and either continued to stay or moved someplace and returned to stop in daily. I thought for some time and then I turned the light on and Googled some of their names. I found references to “A River Runs Through It” and “The Grapes of Wrath” and  “The Prince of Tides” and so forth.

With hesitation, I Googled “AmeliaJake.”