I imagine the sound of a train in the far distance, blowing its horn as it covers the miles, moving through the plains under the moonlight. If a freight train, it is a hundred cars long with the mountains on the far horizon, hurtling towards the Western states with its industrial cargo.
If a passenger train, it moves like a silver streak to stop at destinations across the country when daylight arrives. It will be emblazoned with a name that connotes the power and adventure of the rails—Empire Builder, California Zephyr, Coast Starlight, Heartland Flyer, Missouri River Runner.
The steady chugging of a train through farmland or prairies, over bridges, around mountains, through American cities from coast to coast, is a reassuring sound that helps me dream peacefully through the night.
I frequently travel between New York and Boston, always on Amtrak, never by air and rarely by automobile. Even a four-hour trip evokes the romance of the rails.
When the conductor vigorously announces, “All aboard, tickets please,” I am hooked. Tickets are now digital, but the tradition of calling out to passengers lives on.
And along this route, the voices of the conductors have been magnificent, calling out warnings to passengers in authoritative tones to herald the boarding, the departure, and then the upcoming stops at the named stations, somehow lengthening the syllables in their strong tenor, baritone, or bass.
Providence, Kingston, Westerly . . . .
Coastal Connecticut is a changing panorama of harbors, inlets, ports, and the ocean, in all kinds of weather and seasons.
Mystic, New London, Old Saybrook . . . .
The sight of the suspension bridges and the deeply serrated profile of the skyline as we approach New York City thrills me each and every time. Other passengers will stay on through Philadelphia, travel on to Washington, or remain in their seats all the way to interior Virginia, the final destination of the Northeast Regional route.
I disembark into the magnificent city and navigate the subway system to my own final destination, the Upper West Side.
Last winter, my train halted in the snow between stations, with crew donning their outdoor gear and hurrying down the aisles. After fifteen minutes, they announced the reason—deer strike. It turns out that hitting larger animals occurs on a regular basis. There is a protocol for proper handling and filing official notifications, a disturbing realization of the cost of progress.
I remember an overnight train trip with my mom and little brother from New Jersey to Florida in the mid 1950s. Oddly, I don’t recall the daytime part of the trip, although I am sure that eight year old me was glued to the window as we covered the tracks through the states below the Mason-Dixon line. We needed no other entertainment—wasn’t looking outside the window the whole point of the trip? My mom packed a brown bag lunch of egg salad sandwiches, pickles, apples, and Hershey Bars to get us through the first day of our adventure.
What I do remember is nighttime, when the bright lighting was turned down and the pale blue fluorescent lights transformed the car with an eerie glow. We all sat still in our plush seats upholstered with striped velvety material, speeding steadily towards our Miami destination where my grandparents awaited our arrival the next morning.
The magic of being on board has never left me.
This morning, before departing, I waited in line at the coffee stand. A twenty-something guy with a backpack signaled me to go ahead of him. I asked, “Are you sure?” and he nodded yes.
I ordered my regular coffee and held out my two dollars, but he quickly told the clerk, “I’ll pay for that.” I offered my sincere thanks . . . and then he was gone. My day brightened, and my faith in the goodness of my brother and sister humans in our troubled world strengthened for a sweet moment.
Writing this, it occurred to me that the young man purposely let me in ahead so he would be in a position to treat me. I don’t know why this happened to me, a silver-haired lady with a red suitcase. On this particular day. In this random place. With this other person.
Thinking about it on the train, sipping my gift of the hot cuppa joe, I know there’s a realization to share here—and it is simply the existence of a momentary connection between two strangers that affirms the humanity between them.
I settle into my window seat, certain that the way it started was a good omen of the day—and year—to come.
I love this piece of nostalgia on trains. It brings back some beautiful memories of my childhood. I love how you mentioned a renewal of faith in our fellow humanity. Those moments of spontaneous actions from strangers can be so rewarding. Was he good looking as well as kind? That’s one of those moments that was meant only for you. It all sounds pretty wonderful to me. I love trains.Thanks for sharing. Happy Holidays.
Thank you Diane for your favorable comments on my train piece — glad you enjoyed it. To answer your question, the young man was a handsome African-American with braided hair.
What a nice description of a train ride. Maybe I should take the train the next time I visit New York so I won’t be stuck in traffic getting into the city.
You make the ordinary seem more magical.
Thank you Donna fir your compliments in my writing. Yes, you will miss the traffic jams!
Beautifully, evocatively written piece which not only brought back my own memories of trains (and, strangely, busses), but took me back to cinematic train rides I have seen only on the Big Screen, but which sometimes felt more real than the real thing.
I am pleased that my piece resonated with you — and brought you back to trains experienced in more than one way.
Crossing the Hell Gate Bridge is one inspiring element of the Boston – New York passage
And I will look up the Canadian Railroad Trilogy at your suggestion, thanks Josh.
You may also enjoy Roy Acuff’s “Fireball Mail.” Railroads occupy a very special place in American lore.
Ah, Barrie, I love to read what you write. This is a welcome break for me sitting here in Istanbul, just sent my draft off to a first-read copy editor for my newest book. Of course, it’s set in Istanbul! How could it not be? It’s the simple things in life that have always made me smile, like your train ride, and my road trip last week. The laughter, the smiles, the kindness of strangers…this is what truly makes a life. Thank you for sharing your special memories.
Thank you Lynda, for taking the time to read and comment on my blog, from your exotic location in foreign lands. You are on a fabulous path with your writing, inspired by your travels. Best wishes, my writer friend!
Enjoyed your descriptive writing about train transportation. You really made it come alive. Your cousin Neil loves trains too. I wonder if it’s a family thing?
Haha, you’re the only in the family to comment, so maybe trains are a Neil and Barrie thing! Best wishes for T-Day!
This is so sweet Barrie! Good things happen to good people. Bet you that Coffee was extra special, like you! Lovely post.
So nice to hear from you, Magdeld, and with your sweet thoughts.
Our family packed egg salad sandwiches and apricot nectar for our 12 hour train trip to New York every summer. My brothers and I hate apricot nectar even today because it was warm and the only drink available to us. We also took 12 dozen eggs from a local farm near Chatham to New York so my grandmother had enough for scrambled eggs for my Zausmer cousins all summer. We would board the train in Blenheim Ontario early in the morning and when we arrived at Grand Central station 12 hours later, my Grandpa would be waiting curbside at 42 street. No cell phones!
Carol, I enjoyed your reminiscence about the summer train trips. I didn’t exactly know how it worked in the family back then, or about the eggs! But I do remember warm apricot nectar, makes me gag to think of it. It was the healthy drink of the time, I guess, ugh!
You’ve done it Barrie ! You tapped beautifully into the mysterious at times mystical culture that is the world of trains. Great lyrical imagery here. Of a world distinctly detached from the hum drum of every day life. It fosters reflection, meditation and a whole lotta je ne sais qoi. No one took this farther than Albert Einstein. Devising his theory of relativity to the clickity clack of the railroad track. You inspired me to re visit my catalogue of favorite train songs. Steve Goodman’s immortal “City of New Orleans”. Tom Rush’s fantastic composite of Bukka White train songs rolled into one beauty called “The Panama Limited”. Doug Macleod took that song even further down the tracks. Dave Carter’s fantastic “Hey Conductor”. Who doesn’t know “Freight Train”. Every one of them dudes would doff their hat and bow to you Barrie with an all knowing; this lady knows. Frank
Frank, thank you for your highly complimentary comment. You place me in stellar company! Yes, we go out of our minds (in a good way) when it comes to travel “through the mountains, through the prairies, to the oceans lined with foam,” a pastime that can remind us of the greatness of our country.