Today the girls’ mother, Trina, taught me how to sew.
I’m not the most domesticated person in the world.
But, turns out I have a knack for it.
We are making winter things. The girls’ are not the
only children. The motel is full up.
I feel incredibly privileged for these people to have
taken me in.
It is nice that they had only been here at this hotel
for a few weeks before I came along. So it’s like
we are all settling in together. But they brought things
from the other places they had been. Including
the chickens and there are some goats as well.
They have shared everything with me.
Trina and I did not help with the storage building today.
I can’t believe how many boxes there are in there.
Other people must have just assumed that the
building had been gone through already and never
bothered to look. That is the only explanation for
why it is so fully untouched that I can see.
It helps that this place is just absolutely in the middle
of nowhere.
This evening, after chores and a full day of sewing,
and cooking, etc.
I returned to my room to find a surprise.
On the table next to the beds. Sat a very old Astoria
typewriter.
There was a small cardboard box full of extra ink.
(Yes, the typewriter is so old it has ink pads which the
keys press into to make the letters. No ribbon.)
A ream of paper, placed neatly next to the typewriter
and the box of ink, already opened.
A sheet of paper was in the typewriter already.
I had not intended to stay with these people.
But where else was I going to go?
I am still getting to know everyone. No one
seems to know where the typewriter came
from. We assume from the storage building.
It’s so old it’s almost a relic. But it works.
On the paper was typed, “For you. The journalist.
Glad you’re still here.”
Sam