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Railroad Crossings
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Railroad Crossings |
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Elimeno P Junior Member
since 2002-12-06
Posts 17The only place I want to be! |
Railroad Crossings We waited in the early morning darkness. It was bitter cold, as evidenced by the exhaust from the cars and the breath of the men handling the baggage. Dad talked about the upcoming Christmas holiday and asked when I would be back again. I was half listening and half lost in thought as I stared out at the vast, star filled, North Dakota sky. I never really appreciated the beauty of this sky until I lived where the night sky was barren and almost starless. When I looked at the sky here, I heard Carl Sagan saying “billions and billions of tiny little stars with billions and billions of tiny little planets”. I smiled to myself as I thought of watching every episode of Cosmos, huddled in front of the TV with my family. Oh how I missed the little things, like a starry night. I realized in that moment what I was missing as I experienced it again. I reflected on the events of the previous two weeks, starting with the call from Mom informing me that Grandma had died. After a three day drive to Minnesota with my Aunt and Uncle, we arrived in time for the visitation and mass for Grandma in Duluth. The Funeral and burial were on the following day, four hours away in Wahpeton, North Dakota. It had been twenty years since I was last in Wahpeton. As we drove through town, I remember thinking how things had not changed much. It was as though time had not passed. Most everything seemed as I remembered. The cars motoring by and some buildings were new, but it felt the same - the same as when I was a kid, the same as when my parents grew up here. This is probably why they could never move from the area, despite the harsh winters. There is a warmth and comfort here, familiar like an old afghan, a good book, and a well worn chair. After the funeral, I spent the rest of my leave with family. I had one week left before work would require me to return to South Carolina. I searched the internet for transportation home and found the cost of airfare, on such short notice, quite prohibitive; however, a train ticket was within reason. That was what brought me to that little parking lot by the tracks in the middle of nowhere. The train depot now was just a little office in town to handle the administrative duties. To catch the train you had to go out to the boarding stop out of town. This was nothing more than a parking lot next to the tracks. I found this modernized and streamlined depot to be sad and disheartening. As my dad and I waited for the train, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I was going to miss him and my family. In fact, I had started missing them already and I had yet to board my superliner. I thought it fitting that I would be making my return trip on the train, as both of my grandfathers worked for the railroad. My family’s history was tied to the railroad. Both grandmothers had survived on railroad pensions and I had heard many stories of riding the train for next to nothing with a railroad employee or pension boarding pass. Now, I would be traveling for the first time I can remember on the rails that my family traveled and worked on over the course of many decades. I also remember hearing stories about the big steam engines running through town and tales of the grandeur of big city train stations. My parents and relatives would reminisce about riding the train to the city for Christmas shopping. I grew up loving trains and the idea of train travel, but had only experienced the rushed, cramped style of airline travel, and the confined, ceaseless boredom of bus travel. There was a mystique associated with train travel that is not found on planes or buses. Folk tales and songs tell about hobos riding the rails during the depression, in search of greener pastures. Scenes depicting a joyous girl seeing a returning soldier and sorrow of a girl telling her sailor goodbye from the train platform are common in old war movies and musicals. The train is different, relaxed, and classy. As the train arrived, I imagined a steam engine rolling to a stop, spewing clouds of steam and smoke. Passenger cars, enveloped by a fog of despair belched forth by locomotives longing to run free. The modern day stainless steel express I rode had none of that dramatic flair when it arrived. I got out of the car, grabbed my bags, and I walked quietly with my dad to the boarding platform or rather, “edge of the parking lot”. Dad told me how he missed train travel, even though he really didn’t travel at all. I couldn’t help feeling I missed it too, even though I had not done it before. I listened for “ALL ABOARD!”, but sadly, that was a sound of the past. As I hugged my Dad goodbye he said, “Well, All aboard!”, as though reading my mind. I boarded the car, put my luggage up, and found a seat. I saw my Dad outside watching the train pull out. I waved goodbye even though I knew he could not see through the dark windows. The train lurched, and off I went. I was pleased to find the seats were much bigger than airline seats. Huge windows provided a panorama of scenery. I closed my eyes in review of my recent journey home. A few decades ago, my grandfathers worked on these tracks. I imagined them traveling up and down this line, working all over North Dakota and Minnesota. I pictured my grandparents and family traveling these tracks to visit family or go shopping for the day. What a magnificent way to travel - no rushing, no running to gates, no cramped little seats or bathrooms. This venue of travel simply entailed relaxation - read a book, get a coffee, and watch America go by, clicked off twenty feet at a time. Most of the trip back to South Carolina was spent in the observation car. Sitting high in the dome above, I watched the landscape pass by like an IMAX show. We passed through towns and countryside, through forgotten neighborhoods, and centers of industry. I observed it all from a perch just above the world. I saw both sides of the tracks. I saw wealthy and affluent estates towering far off in the distance with acres of lush green grass. I saw working class neighborhoods with their modest houses and playful back yards a little closer in. I saw those on the bottom rungs of society clinging to the rails edge. It felt as if I were looking through the past into the future. How appropriate it felt as I turned the page on one generation of my family’s history book, traveling in their footsteps. I watched the forests and lakes of Minnesota slide past, clicked off by the wheels on the track. Click Clack…..Click Clack. The rhythm was steady, comforting and familiar. I could have watched forever as America unfolded before my eyes, only to fold up again in passing, like a never ending pop-up book. The only real stop, which was more like a layover in plane travel, was in Chicago - the windy city, the city with the big shoulders – at Union Station. It was as if I had stepped into one of those old war movies, except in color. Not today’s color, more like a colorized black and white movie. Great arches towered over me. People bustled about. The smell of the past, fast food, and newspapers swirled through the air. It was grand, welcoming, and historic. One could see that in its day, this place was modern, exciting, and graceful. When my parents and grandparents were young, it had to have been a place of architectural brilliance and grandeur. Those were the days, “the good old days”. Now, even for all its impressiveness I saw a dignified sadness in this building. Like the aging father, grandfather, Army veteran of a war long past, and retired railroad carpenter who was finished. He had accomplished much in what time he had been given. He could do more, if only his body had stayed as fit as his mind. I recalled my grandfather sitting majestically on his porch, listening to Twins games on his AM radio, a living monument to the greatness of his generation. He could only watch as time left him and his era behind. I took a walk to see some of this new age. I emerged onto the streets of downtown Chicago at the height of the Christmas season and walked the few blocks to its modern icon, the Sears Tower and hitched a ride to the observation level. Chicago sprawled out before me like a vast ocean of lights with veins of luminous blood coursing this way and that. This was the largest expanse of urban civilization I had ever seen. It was a giant Christmas display, placed precariously as if God himself could enjoy it. It was an incredible scene, not like the natural beauty of a North Dakota night sky, or the indescribable blueness of the ocean far out at sea, but incredible in a man-made splendor of its own. A photographic history of Chicago and Union Station was on display in the observation deck. I studied the old pictures and then looked down below to see how an area had changed. It was hardly the same city at all, except for one lasting treasure, Union Station. It could be seen in both the photos and out the window. It had changed little. Walking back to Union Station, I felt satisfied and more complete for taking this journey. As we meandered past different cities, I realized I was not only seeing the miles pass by, I could see how time had passed as well. Not the time ticking away on my watch; or the clicking of wheels on rail, but the signs left behind of days long past – the abandoned buildings and sheds that once buzzed with activity. Then the Railroads glory days were ending, as slowly it was replaced by trucks and buses. The life and activity moved away from the tracks and toward the highways, leaving behind their past, their shadows, and their abandoned remains. Cars, machinery, and warehouses, all left abandoned, like time capsules buried for a class project. I tried to imagine what stories they could tell. I thought of the lives that toiled there to churn out a living. I thought of families which counted on these jobs for a livelihood. To give them the means to reach for a dream. My Grandfathers worked their whole lives for the Railroad, and my Grandmothers were teachers and one ran a bakery out of her home so they could buy a home and put kids through college. Those are the kind of stories these places told. The story of a nation that survived a Great Depression - the story of a nation that rose together to fight evil in two world wars, and won - the story of dreams had, dreams realized, and dreams shattered. I understood this is not a nation of soil and water, mountains and plains, or buildings and roads. This is a nation of people. People that conquered and farmed the land, built buildings and roads, and grew industry. What makes this country a nation is its people. What makes this country a great nation is their stories. This is my husbands story, he can't remember his password and our emails have changed! |
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| © Copyright 2010 Elimeno P - All Rights Reserved | |||
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qwertyportne Junior Member
since 2010-03-04
Posts 19CA |
Tell your husband to find his password so I can read more of his stories! I'll try to find some of yours, too. My wife has been encouraging me to write my memoirs, and a few months ago I began to pull things from my past out of mind and onto paper. My only son was killed at 19, so I don't have any grand children who might someday want to read them, but I'll post a story about him in this forum. Perhaps somebody here will read and enjoy it. As your husband said, we are a nation of stories and I liked his. Thanks... --Bill |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Nice writing...James |
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