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Join Wundry Plus in the Wundery app or on Apple Podcasts. Wandering. It's the summer of 1947 on a train traveling from California to Socaro, New Mexico.

The most famous hotel owner on the planet, 59 year old Conrad Connie Hilton,

sits in the corner of the plush first-class railroad car. He's alone except for a coffin.

Connie usually favors a sharp white suit, but today he wears black for the woman who raised him,

the woman whose body lies in the coffin straddling the aisle beside him, his mother Mary.

Connie looks out at the arid bleached scrubland streaking past the window.

Well, mama, you're almost home.

Heck of a ride you went on.

Zicaro to El Paso, Long Beach, you seemed happier there.

Happier than in New York, that's for sure.

Connie dabs at the sweat on his brow with his handkerchief.

You know, I never thought there'd come a day when the New Mexico he got the better of me, but here we are.

Connie shifts uncomfortably on his seat, looks over at the gleaming wooden coffin.

You know, I could do with a glass of lemonade, you know, like you used to make for us,

sitting out on the porch, you telling me I should be praying more.

Yeah, I know you always thought I was crazy,

chasing my big dreams, and I still have them even now.

The biggest of them all, sits just but an arm's length away. I just have to reach out and grab it.

Connie Frowns. I just don't want me to have it though. Haven't I proven myself, Mama?

Well I think I have by God.

Forgive me for taking the Lord's name,

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