Sometimes from the sitting room of my upstairs bedroom, I
can hear the faint sound of a train whistle. Oh, how I love that sound! There
is just something about hearing that faint whisper of a train whistle that can create moods of nostalgia,
melancholy, and longing simultaneously. I’m not sure there is another sound
quite like it for putting me in a contemplative and reflective mood.
Recently, upon hearing that sound, I began reflecting on the
strange sense of longing I feel when I hear a train in the distant. And, it
creates a vastly different feeling the farther away it is heard. When you hear
a train’s whistle close up, it definitely gets your attention. You stop and take
notice lest you become fodder for the six o’clock news: “Lady ignores train whistle
and dies on tracks.” But, when you hear the sound from far away....well, it
evokes images of a new journey full of promise as well as a sad departure from
whence one may never be able to return.
Growing up, I can’t recall being so moved by the sound of a
train. Then, I married an Irishman who came from a long line of railroad men.
He was a train fanatic—or so I thought based on his sheer enthusiasm of all
things trains. He sought out any and every working train he could
find—especially after our first son was born. He even booked an excursion that
left from Atlanta and traveled to Chattanooga when our
first born was a just over a year old. The only problem for me was that I was
in my first trimester of my pregnancy with our second son, and I already had an
overly active toddler to contend with. Keep in mind that I had attended college in Chattanooga, so I was
well aware of the journey. I knew exactly how long the trip would take by car.
I was not, however, prepared for this 90 minute journey to take three or more hours. I
finally understood the sentiment behind the expression of “being on a slow boat
to China”.
It was so miserable, that I phoned my parents and pleaded with them to please
pick me up and take me back home in the car—they found my dilemma amusing, I
did not. I was perfectly fine for my husband to travel back at a walking pace,
but not this already sleep-deprived pregnant woman. He opted to travel home by
car as well. He wasn’t completely unredeemable after all. Needless to say, my
love for trains did not begin to burgeon at this point.
One to never easily give up, my husband continued his
reckless abandoned love for trains. Most weekends, he took our sons to a small
working train station in Duluth,
GA (http://www.srmduluth.org/default.shtml)
where once a month, they ran a
pint-sized passenger train—they never missed this day. We celebrated birthdays, picnicked, played, and purchased train memorabilia at this location. My oldest son had the
most extensive collection of Thomas the Train toys of any 2 year old, complete
with all of the books as well. I can still recite most of them by memory. Our family was becoming immersed in railroad fodder--I reluctantly tagged along for the ride.
And, here is where the nostalgia seeps in...While my marriage
took the last train to separation and then divorce, what my husband left me
with, besides four beautiful children, was—when I wasn’t looking apparently, a
love for trains. I no longer mourn the loss of the husband, but I will always
mourn the loss of our family as an entire unit; and, I would gladly ride that
slow train to Chattanooga
as many times as it took in order to have my family whole again. I sure hope
there’s a train in heaven—if not, I may be the crazy lady up there with her ear
to the clouds listening for that lonesome sound below just one more time.
