Today, Part A: In the process of getting pictures for my India visa, I meet a friend from years ago, with his wife and daughter, then take a woman of grief to Taco Bell

Normally, I would have been able to mail my Visa application to the India Consulate in San Francisco from Wasilla, but, due to what proved to be an unnecessary process that I will not take the time to describe, I had not only my passport but Melanie's and I needed to get together with her, get a few things coordinated and then express mail both of our passports and applications out together.

So we had lunch, and then I headed to Wal-Mart to get my Visa photos taken. But the photo lady at Wal-Mart said she was closing down and I could come back in half-an-hour. I did not want to come back in half-an-hour, so I headed to Fred Meyer's.

As I drove through the parking lot, I saw George Oweltuck walking with his wife and daughter. I have not seen George in many year's - except on Facebook, where he is a friend.

I parked, got out out and he introduced me to his wife. I should have written her name down. I don't know what's happening to my brain!

Georgianna? If I am wrong, George, please correct me.

The beautiful daughter, I believe, is Nona, although I might need correcting there, too.

She is beautiful, too, but she was feeling very camera shy today, so you only get to see the back of her head.

I then went into Fred's to get the photo taken. I thought they would have lighting set up, but they didn't - just this guy with a flash and me against a tiny screen background. The picture, as you suspect, turned out awful.

Oh, well. I am rather homely anyway.

I then headed over to the Ingra Street post office to get the requisite money orders and express mail the package to San Francisco. I turned off my ignition and, BANG! Something smacked my passenger window. Then smacked it again.

I turned, and saw a short, frantic, woman of Southeast Asian decent motioning me to roll down my window. 

I did not want to, but I did. Did you ever hear about the Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief? Well, I did, and it is very hard for me to turn away, even when I know that ultimately, whatever I do in response will do no good at all.

"I'm hungry!" she spoke in a panic. "People are being mean to me! Nobody will feed me. Nobody will take me to the store, buy me food. My roommate wouldn't share his orange juice with me. Could you take me to Taco Bell?"

So I did, I drove her to Taco Bell and all the way there, she keep telling me how mean people had been being to her: young, pretty girls, mocking her, telling her they were prettier than she. "What does it mean, when they tell me that?" she asked. "Why do they say it? Why are they mean? When they call me retarded, what does that mean?"

She wanted to know the meaning of many things, but I could tell her the meaning of nothing.

She wanted five tacos, some crispy potatoes and a Diet Pepsi. "That's a lot of food," I said.

"I don't have food for later! It's for now and later." So I bought it all, then drove her to the place where she said she lived with her roommate, who was being mean to her, called her bitch, "hit on me."

"White people are mean to me! Black people are mean to me! Why? What does it mean when people are mean to me? Is this how people are in Alaska? What does it mean? How is it in the Lower 48? Is it better there?"

So I dropped her off to face her mean roommate, went back to the Post Office, got everything ready, paid my fees and then took note of the part in the instructions where it said that I should be certain to include my application number on the money order, and be certain to sign it.

I did not know why it said this. You can make a perfectly good money order without putting an actual signature on it. Yet, the Indian Consulate wanted a signature. No problem for my money order, but what about Melanie's?

So I called Melanie's place of work. She had just left to go perform some kind of task with her boss and a coworker. The receptionist did not know when she would be back. Worse yet, Melanie had forgotten her phone today, so I could not call her.

The postal lady who had taken my money had said that after I filled out the money orders, to give the packet straight back to her.

So I rushed over to Melanie's place of work, but she had not returned. I stayed in the area, got coffee, checked back. No Melanie. The clock hit 5:00. The office closed. No Melanie. The Post Office would close at 5:30. So I signed it for her and put my initials by it, rushed back to the P.O. and gave it to the lady just before she closed.

I could not help but think - if I had just ignored that hungry lady, shunted her aside, I would have gotten to Melanie in plenty of time. I would not have wasted the hours that I did. She would have survived. She is no better off now then she would be if I had turned her aside, avoided all this.

"A poor wayfaring man of grief hath often passed me on my way, who sued so humbly for relief that I could never answer 'nay.'"

How many people have helped me out, all over Alaska? I really had  no choice, did I?

I drove back to Wasilla, stopped at our post office to check my mail and there saw the above dog, waiting for a human.

And late in the evening, about 9:00 PM, as everything was beginning to refreeze, I went walking with Jacob and Kalib.