This is the second in a series chronicling my gradual relocation to Palo Alto, California. The first installment is here.
The industrial wagon departed today and I already harbor regrets. I neglected to send my late grandmother’s lamp as well as the headboard to the family bed. And though it pains me to speak of it, my lover’s armchair, which was sitting unassumingly supporting an armload of quilts, never made it onto the large wagon. I pray we do not have to leave it along the trail. Perhaps it can be dismantled and tied to the back. Or perhaps I should discard of it now as we have lost its owner to a group of eastern-bound bandits. As my hope of seeing him again grows faint, so does the conviction that I can ever fully enjoy the chair without that fine backside to grace its cushion.
There is a blacksmith in the nearby town that doubles as a wagon repairman. His name is Gerryman and he discovered three leaks on the underside of our carriage. They require our immediate attention should we ever wish to ford a river again, heaven forbid. Knowing Gerryman’s disdain for the gold rush, I was quick to mention our more immediate venture to Montana. In response, he showed me a picture of a 9 foot snake hanging over a shovel. “I found that in Montana,” he chuckled. I could only muster a disheartened gulp.
I left the wagon overnight and journeyed back to camp on my riding pony. Granite has a loping gait that worsens during downhill stretches. I suspect a damaged hip from a time when I loaded her too heavily on one side and she tipped over. As we journeyed back, the rain intensified and I quickly found myself drenched. Granite, poor soul, was caked in mud, but I left her tied to the wagon to fend for herself while I stripped to my undergarments and spent the next two hours on my cot pondering life and the impending darkness.
Upon my recovery, I discovered my greatest lament of all. Finding myself with an intense craving for macaroni and cheese, I checked the stores to find that this, of all things, had journeyed on to California. Oh woe. I shall bury my sorrows in fruit cake.
