The ticket is in here somewhere. Of course it is. Not five minutes ago, I presented it to the
agent and stuffed it back into my purse.
Wallet, tissues, checkbook, keys, cosmetics bag, pens, pad. For heaven’s sake. As I rummage, my stomach clenches with
anxiety. “Can I hold it for you while
you search?” a man asks.
Unique in this crowd garbed in tee-shirts, shorts, sundresses,
and flip flops, the gentleman is slight and wiry, with a straggly gray goatee, spectacles,
a brimmed black hat, long sleeved shirt, and overalls. His round-faced female
companion wears a white bonnet, faded blue dress, and apron. Amish.
Is that why I trust him? For,
without hesitation, I hand this stranger my unruly pocketbook, rustle in its
depths a little more, and find my ticket.
To my thanks, he says, "That’s what we’re here for.”
My auto-smile must have conveyed incomprehension, for he
adds, “To help each other. That’s why
we’re here.”
I file this away with a nod as the loudspeaker booms, “Amtrak
Capitol Limited for Washington, now boarding.”
A flurry ensues as passengers bend, twist, and reach to adjust straps
and grab suitcases. Dave and I smile our
farewells to my helper and lose sight of the couple in the surge down the
platform.
Once settled in our tiny roomette, we are giddy with excitement. This ride is as much part of our journey as
the stay in Williamsburg, our destination. Dave has longed for an overnight
train trip, and when I was a child, I traveled every year with my mother and
sisters to visit my grandparents in St. Louis.
In the fifties, the view from the train was enough to entertain three
little girls, but I imagine degraded landscapes and subdivisions have replaced
the farms, meadows, and glimpses of cows and horses that thrilled us then. So, my husband and I are prepared with books,
laptops, and magazines for this lovely stretch of open hours.
The train jolts forward as the whistle blows: long, hollow, soulful…beautiful, a sound from the past. “Listen to it!” Dave says, beaming. We are dancing in our seats, grinning at each
other as the whistle clears the way, and we pull out.
Chicago slips by, and beyond the windows, feathery Queen Anne’s
lace, purple clover, sumac, and yellow Dutchman’s britches thrive along the
rail beds amongst freight cars, tankers, smokestacks, and huge spools of cable. The wildflowers
bob and white butterflies toss like petals as we breeze by the rusting red
lattice of an abandoned bridge. Past
occasional glimpses of the blue swath of Lake Michigan. Past industrial compounds with mazes of
conveyors, chutes and cranes. Past seas
of grasslands, puddled swamps, and a fast-moving river. Past a decrepit gray house, standing by God’s
grace alone, and three people perched in plastic chairs angled toward the track
as if passing trains were the day’s entertainment.
The whistle sounds its warning as we enter a village, and a
striped bar lowers as the hooded owl-eyed lights of the road crossing flash red
their alarm. The train slows and Dave
and I gaze out the window at fanciful Victorians with wrap-around porches and
picket fences. Country roads shaded with
lush maples and oaks run parallel to the tracks then curve gently into the
woods. And yes, still there are red barns,
undulating green fields, and grazing cows.
On a bridge over a wide river, the train stops above a sandy
shoal. A leggy heron preens on its bank
and orange canoes drift in the current, their occupants paddling languidly. We pick up speed, leaving behind those people
and that lazy moment in their lives, to zip beneath a craggy rock outcropping
and then plunge into the darkness of a tunnel.
As in life, every minute is a surprise as we rush from light to dark to
light again, from trailer parks to seas of untrammeled grasses to tamed rows of
corn. Every glance to this page to
write is a risk, for I know I will miss something wonderful.
The dinner hour is announced over the intercom – joy! - so
we lurch down the narrow hall to the dining car. Tequila, with her broad smile, warm eyes, and
lengthy dredlocks pulled to a bunch at the back of her head, directs us to our
seats across from Norman, a retired history of art teacher. For two hours we enjoy conversation, wine, salmon
topped with halved cherry tomatoes, and moist, flavorful chicken.
Norman fills us in on his years of teaching, traveling, and
acting as a host/ambassador on a cruise line where his duties included “dancing
with the single ladies.” He grins often,
his eyes crinkling closed every time. As
Dave and I have just visited the Chicago Institute of Art, we are bubbling with
enthusiasm over some of the famous paintings we saw: American Gothic and
Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.”’ Norman knows them well, as he does
every artwork and historic site we mention from our travels. At 82, he is heading home after touring out
west with his family, and is looking forward to a solo trip to Italy in the
fall.
When Dave and I return to our roomette after dinner, it has been
transformed. The seats have disappeared
and two sleeping berths made up, the corners of the sheets folded back
invitingly.
Who will take the upper berth?
When I was a kid, that was the desired spot. Did my sisters and I flip a coin or fight for
it? Don’t recall, but Dave and I snuggle
into the lower berth to discuss the benefits of upper and lower, watching
lights whizz by in the darkness beyond the window. The train sounds its ghostly warning of a road
crossing and I remind Dave of “Train Whistle Blowing,” a song my friend Janice
and I used to sing with our students in music class. “Don’t
sing it,” Dave pleads. It is not his
favorite song.
“Rockin’, Rollin’, Ridin’, out along the bay. All bound for morning town many miles away.”
I launch into the tune with verve, the wail of the whistle and the clatter of
the rails as my background accompaniment.
While it’s possible this is not a penalty for my little chorus, at
bedtime, I’m the one to haul up top, snap the safety net into place, and hope I
don’t have to go to the bathroom too many times during the night.
Happily, I don’t. We
both sleep well, and after sloshy, bumpy efforts to wash up in the restroom, we
return to the dining car for breakfast.
I’m not so sure about this morning’s dining companion.
Ron’s gray hair is neatly combed back from a high forehead; his
glasses perch on a strong nose. He is
slender and handsome, but his smile is often a sneer, and he counters our raves
about last night’s dinner with the opinion that we’d simply been lucky in
choosing the only good options on the menu. He is annoyed by the chill of the air
conditioner and clenches his jaw as he leans forward across the table to state,
“The American public deserves better rail service.”
I have him all wrapped up and tucked in a cranky old man
pigeonhole when he launches into a hilarious tale about his mother-in-law, “an
old battle-axe, too mean to die.” He transports us to 1930’s Brooklyn to meet
his childhood pals Wendel, Josh, and Howie.
Ron and Dave crack up while I gasp at tales of ink poured onto the
milkman’s white horse, and heavy coat buttons persistently peppering a rival’s
window, a chinese water torture of sorts, until a filched ball was returned. The three pranksters grew up to become a
businessman, lawyer, and supreme court justice, and in confiding their
histories, Ron’s disapproving visage relaxed into that of the mischievous boy
he had been.
After breakfast, Dave and I return to our roomette to find
our seats restored. We settle in and marvel at the view out the window. At a crawl, we are passing through Ashland,
Virginia. It’s easy to imagine ourselves
in a horse-drawn carriage for we are cruising sedately down what appears to be
Main Street, flanked on either side by mown green lawns and stately Victorian
houses, the porch railings still decorated with red, white, and blue
bunting. The train picks up speed as
homes give way to open fields and split rail fences.
The loudspeaker informs us that we are running late: shared
tracks have added to our time.
Good. Dave and I relish every
added hour, every peek into passing towns and vistas. Ron had insisted “the American people should
demand a bullet train, like the one from London to Paris.” I get it: sometimes it’s all about the destination.
But, mounted on the wall in my daughter’s second grade classroom was a poster
that read, “Childhood should be a journey instead of a race,” and I think of
the Amish man who offered to hold my bag at the station in Washington. I think
of Norman, Ron, and the people in the plastic chairs watching the trains. I think of rusting bridges, Queen Anne’s lace
entwined with webs of wire, and a glimpse of a day on the river in an orange
canoe. And I say, forget the bullet;
I’ll take the slow route.
