Gramps was one of the great Storytellers. He could start a story and within a few sentences entrap his audience with it's intricate weaving. Sometimes they were true. Sometimes not. Sometimes there was just enough truth to leave you really wondering.
One of the true ones was enhanced by Gramps' own love and enjoyment of trains.
As a young man making his way through the early years of the Depression he found himself far from home seeking work. His search carried him to a town a few hours north of here. He would later return and work in the torpedo factory making the bombs my other grandfather would fire out at Japanese warships in WWII. One year, coming up on Christmas, he found himself getting excruciatingly homesick. He had no money. No means of transportation. He made his way down to the railway transfer station and found an empty rail car heading west. During this pilgrimage from Virginia to New Mexico (around 1000 miles) he encountered a wide range of people from all walks of life--all with their own stories to tell.
Gramps was fairly tall. Tall and lanky. It didn't take long for his hunger to show. One man he met along the way offered the only food he had--a box of doughnuts, several days old--in exchange for a freshly mowed lawn. For as long as I knew him, Gramps ate stale doughnuts. And with every bite remembered the day he was starving and those small bits of fried dough were his redemption.
Growing up in a third world country sometimes our easiest and most reliable mode of transportation was the train. We would have two adjoining compartments for the four of us. Enough food for the journey and a large can with plastic bags--the Honeypot--to use as our toilet. Once all of the compartments were full they would load on the "3rd" class passengers and fill the passageways. We weren't leaving our berthing until we pulled in to our destination simply due to the fact we couldn't open our door! I remember hours spent in the tiny compartment. Gazing out the window watching the Tanzanian countryside go by. Sitting on one of the bunks playing canasta--hours and hours of canasta. Later as I grew older I took in the poverty all around. The half naked children running up to the windows at each station either begging or selling bananas. We would usually purchase fruit from one of them. And watch them wave as we pulled out of the train station and out of sight.
I've seen a fair amount of Europe from a train window. The Dutch countryside in spring has to be the most colorful and picturesque by far. Though the journey from London over to Yorkshire on an old steamer was the most pleasant.
As a money strapped college student I spent a considerable amount of time noticing the vast difference between East African Railways and Amtrak. The one similarity was that neither ran on time. There were a few tense and scary early pre-dawn mornings sitting all alone in the station waiting for the train that was supposed to have arrived hours before. I never had a compartment to myself, but I was usually able to keep my entire seat. I could lay down, using my backpack for a pillow, sleep, read or simply watch the country go by. I recall a trip I took down to Birmingham, AL to visit an old friend. As we pulled into town around sunrise Willy Nelson was playing in my head.
Good morning, America! How are ya?
Don't you know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans.
And I'll be gone 500 miles before the day is done.
That was the last trip I took on the train. It was far too long ago.
When Jacob was just over a year old I went back to work full time. The journey to his babysitter every morning took us over train tracks. Sometimes we would have to stop and the time was spent watching the train roll by. We would talk about where it was going. What it was carrying and where all of the people came from. I think we were the only car waiting that truly didn't mind the wait. In fact, there was always a small twinge of disappointment when all we did was drive over the rails without the need to stop.
