Singing the Railroad Blues
Twenty-five years. That’s how long it had been since I bundled my three kids, loaded up on fruit snacks, and rode the rails from Chicago to Washington to celebrate Thanksgiving at their grandparents. Back in the day, choosing Amtrak was more of an economic necessity than a romanticized wish to ramble through the countryside. It was a two for one deal- two children for each adult ticket. Flying not even remotely in my budget. Neither were the sleeping cars, so we settled for four seats facing each other on the coach. Our own rolling cubicle.
Memories amble through my brain like engine wheels. My five-year-old Aaron waking up at the Lancaster station and asking if “We were still in America?” Games of Go Fish in the club car, cards tumbling to the floor whenever the train makes a sudden lurch. Mini bags of pretzels and apple juice boxes in the diaper bag I use for snacks.
Feeling nostalgic, I decide to travel solo to our Thanksgiving family reunion by train from Detroit to DC. The Capital Limited (now the Floridian since it extended its route to Miami) runs through old industrial hubs like Cleveland and Pittsburgh before venturing south through the Allegheny Mountains to Harpers Ferry and then Washington.
Paul Simon once observed, “There something about the sound of a train that’s very romantic and nostalgic and hopeful.” I have a lot of time to bask in hope during the 14-hour ride.
After surviving a not so very nostalgic night during which my body twisted in positions I never imagined, I look out my window to see what lies between Detroit and my destination:
Copper leaves that cling fiercely to branches as if fearing the coming winter. Abandoned piles of railroad ties. Ramshackle barn, black and weathered. Jagged boulders sprouting baby fir trees, as if to boast, “See, there is life in these old stones.” Amber haystacks in field, like a Van Gogh painting. Dozens of auto parts stores. Sign that says Allegheny Radio Company in red letters. Travelers huddled outside the Cleveland station, wheeling suitcases on the platform. Tiny diamond-shaped islands in the Potomac harboring rush and cattails. Amish families, led by bearded men and bonneted women, surrounded by belted suitcases and bags of plastic containers, waiting in Toledo at midnight. A toddler in a blue dress nods off on her mother’s lap.
Conversation in the dining car with retired military lawyer from Sandusky who was in the Pentagon when plane struck on 9/11. Meeting young woman heading back to Pittsburgh to study mortuary science, her first train ride. A female voice singing a lullaby to a crying baby at 3 am after we leave Pittsburgh. Seems like she might be serenading us all.