there are train tracks that run about two and a half miles east of us. while they are a jolly pain in the rear during the day if you're are caught at the crossings, they leave behind them a hauntingly beautiful song at night when the windows are open. you can hear their refrain miles before they rumble into town and then it fades as they march slowly in the opposite direction. i always stop whatever i am doing when i hear the sweet blurry tones of their horns followed by the muted clatter of the rails. i miss these sounds when the house is closed up for the summer and i know winter is on its way when i hear the sounds anew.
they remind me of times past in the mid 60's when we would sneak out of boarding school and ride the train into the city, getting off at 9th and wandering down to the east village to the "dugout'. the burgers were so big, my jaw could not open to accommodate all the goodness and i was forced to gnaw in stages through the deliciousness. we'd grab an illegal beer from the unconcerned bartender and sit there in our khaki pants with madras shirts over turtlenecks and inhale the smell of freedom and happiness.
even younger, we would follow our parents into town on friday nights and stand by the tracks cocking our elbows and yanking them down waiting for the engineer to reciprocate with a pull of the whistle.
trains are bubbles of memory held in the mind.
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"Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance..." - Paul Simon
My dad ran a Standard Oil gas station when I was a sprout. I would go and "help daddy" when mom would go grocery shopping. I would ask him to use his key to get me a Coke out of the machine instead of using the nickel he'd give me, I would go out and jump on the hose at the pumps that would make the bell ring inside when a car drove over it. But BEST of all, I would run out and wave at the engineer and the caboose man when the train would roll right by the gas station. Thank you for that wonderful memory of my daddy!
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