Joy returned to her roomette and watched dusk morph into night, musing over how different the spinster was from her Grammy Abby. She grinned when she imagined informing the churlish woman that it had been the urging of her grandmother that sent her on her unchaperoned adventure.
A knock on her sliding panel interrupted her thoughts. A voice said, "It’s the steward, ma'am. Are you ready for me to pull down your bed?"
"Could we do it in an hour, sir?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'll return then."
For the next hour Joy watched an evening made mysterious by the interplay of shadows dancing from trees that whizzed past her window. Occasionally, a distant light punctuated the expanding darkness and inspired a vision of covered wagons camped for the night under a canopy of pines, with their oil lamps casting circles of illumination on the forest floor. She would paint the vision and call it Finding Home. She couldn't wait to get started on it.
The next morning she woke at dawn and hung a small placard outside her door indicating she was ready for the porter to lift her bed and bring her fresh towels. Within the hour she had washed in the tiny basin built into the wall, dressed in clean clothing, and combed her short bob of brunette hair until there were no more tangles. She'd known soon after her journey began that her long, naturally curly locks would have to go. She had cut them herself to shoulder length, and then she'd shrugged and gone shorter—to her chin. Her curls now hugged her face. Her new hairstyle was not only the current fashion rage, but it was so easy to manage she couldn't imagine having the burden of long hair again.
Reaching for her serviceable bowler hat, she pulled it down to the top of her eyebrows and set out for the observation car. There was a lightness to her step and she felt unencumbered by the strict mores that only a decade or two ago would have repressed her adventuresome spirit. She silently thanked all the women who had painstakingly, and for years, fought for the equal rights of women. Why, just last summer, Congress had passed the 19th Amendment that granted women the right to vote, and more than likely, the amendment would be ratified this year. Joy felt giddy knowing that women everywhere would soon have a say in electing those who would govern the populace, and she wondered if that freedom would provoke women to run for office. Perhaps someday a woman would win the presidency! She silently giggled at the audacity of such a notion.
Settling into a seat in the observation car that only a few early risers had ventured into, she watched green forests flash past and thought about her next destination.
When her grammy had told her she must follow her heart and paint the West, Joy had envisioned traveling to unknown towns and staying at local inns. How naïve she had been. Of course her family would insure the safest of accommodations for her.
After agreeing to her desire for travel, her father and mother, along with her grammy and Luke, had plotted a course that would bring her to nature's wild country, but also keep her protected. Her father and mother and uncle, each being famous in their own right—her parents for their artistry and her uncle for his writings—had contacted friends living in beautiful locations and asked if they would be willing to host Joy for up to three months. Everyone contacted had replied enthusiastically in the affirmative, and thus, Joy's itinerary had been established.
Outside the observation windows, a raging river came into view and Joy got goose bumps imagining setting her easel up in such a wilderness. She almost clapped her hands with delight. How she longed to start her Finding Home painting that would become part of her Lest We Forget collection.
She continued watching the river until her stomach growled loudly. It was time to head off to the dining car.
She ordered a breakfast of scrambled eggs, oatmeal, and a hot cross bun. The door to the dining car opened and Octavia, with her son, Solomon, and her cranky aunt entered. The aunt saw Joy and lifted her chin haughtily, leading her group to a far table. Solomon waved at Joy when his great-aunt wasn't looking and Octavia smiled a greeting.
After breakfast, Joy returned to the observation car for an hour and then retired to her roomette to prepare for disembarking. Her heart raced and her stomach danced with butterflies. Everyone she had stayed with thus far had been friendly, accommodating, and more importantly, nonjudgmental. All she knew about the family hosting her in Oregon was that they were an older couple who lived outside Oregon City, a town with the alternate title of "The End of the Trail." To pioneers who had traveled the Oregon Trail in the 1800s by covered wagon, sometimes for as long as five or six months, Oregon City had been the most welcome sight imaginable.
Joy had studied the history of the trail and knew the heyday of travel had begun in the 1840s and lasted until around the mid 1880s, with some traffic even into the 1890s. Her Uncle Luke had told her that the property owned by the couple she would be staying with still bore the ruts of wagon wheels. Joy's heart sang at the prospect of painting Old West scenes in the presence of such visible history. Of course she would have to use her imagination to paint the oxen, mules, milk cows tied to the wagons, bonneted women, children, and burly men plodding westward. Inwardly, she smiled. Her grammy had told her many times that she had been blessed with an amazing imagination, and she supposed Abby was right.
The blowing of the train's whistle caused her to jump and she placed a hand over her heart. It was time to return to the present and leave her pioneer family on the Oregon Trail.