It was a scramble leaving the house this morning. Little G had been playing with my cellphone, which was nowhere to be found (we’ll have to check in his diaper tonight). I finally decided, if I was to have any hope of making my train, I had to go without the cellphone today (so 1998, I know).
I dashed out the door and headed down the block. A neighbor walking his dog (Bailey is the dog, no idea what the guy’s name is) commented, “Running late?” I smirked. This one was going to be close.
A few houses later, a non-descript white sedan pulled up to me. “Want a ride to the train?” asked a sweet lady about the age of my mother.
One thing about moving to a new neighborhood: You meet a lot of people, and you don’t remember anyone’s name. (Their dog’s name, maybe, but not theirs). Had I met the woman before? She didn’t look familiar.
“I see ya’s walking for the train sometimes,” she said in an Irish accent.
She said her name was Carma (not sure how it’s spelled), she’s from Galway, and she’s been in the neighborhood for 30 years. She’d even been in my house, when the previous owner was renovating.
And, wouldn’t you know it, good ol’ Carma drove me right to the station. I had seven minutes to spare.
