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It is like ambrosia—fit for the gods.’ ‘I doubt that.’ She pouted. ‘I can’t tell you more, but this is a bad idea, a very bad idea. No good can come of you blithering off the train at this time.’ Of the many times that I have taken this trip, I have always met interesting characters on the way to the dinning car. Of those times, it seems like going to breakfast brings out the most interesting of these characters. This morning was to be no different except in the range of strange that I confronted. I twisted open the door latch for my compartment and stood face to face with the tall, pale man that I had seen in the smoking car from the night before. A chill trickled down my spine. He had shed his long black leather duster in favor of a short embroidered waistcoat and matching vest with at flat brimmed creamed straw hat. Panamanian was my guess. ‘Hello there,’ I said with as much cheerfulness as I could muster. ‘Are you thinking of sampling the breakfast, too?’ His gaze passed over. At the point I was at that moment, I wanted to try something totally new. Since I had the simply retarded phone, rather than the dumb as a brick phone I had when I first got home, I had learned to love photography.I learned that the Mississippi Delta community college offered a course in digital photography. It was an online course, so it came with it’s own set of challenges. For one thing I doubted I was smart enough to follow along with the kids of today. They knew all about everything digital, I knew very little about the digital world.Yes I could follow root directions, like how to download TV Shows and Movies. How would I be with complicated directions was a huge question mark. The Mississippi Delta community college offered a short introductory course in digital photography. It was designed for people like me who had a fifty fifty chance of giving up on the course. People like us had no background in photography and not a lot of computer experience were in a class by ourselves.
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Mrs Petrie drove slowly and they chatted like old friends, almost like mother and daughter. Just as Mrs Petrie was about to drive off, Sierra invited her to stay for lunch. ‘It’s just a hearty salad I’m afraid. Mrs Petrie accepted and that pleased Sierra. The visitor helped with the salad and set the table out on the deck, facing the great expanse of sand as the tide was now well out. ‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’ Sierra said. She’d observed that Mrs Petrie had known whatever she wanted was in a certain drawer or cupboard, not that there were many places for storage. It could have been intelligent guesswork of a dab kitchen-hand but it was the blue and white milk jug that did it. Mrs Petrie went unerringly to the bottom cupboard, second one in from the stove, and produced it. Her father loved it, her mother hated it and insisted to be kept from her sight. The flush told Sierra what she had figured out. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Petrie. I know daddy is a naughty boy – your.

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