If you have ever spent much time in Vicksburg, Michigan, you know how frequently trains pass through our little hometown. Going in or out of the village, we must regularly wait at a crossing. A few years ago, my friend Sue Moore heard me complain about it. She suggested that this is something positive–that more trains mean the economy is doing well. Well, I do my best to be patient and remember her optimism–but I’m not always successful.
When we waited as children, we loved counting cars and watching for the caboose which occupied the end of many trains. My mom would beep her horn as it passed, and my brothers and I would wave at a conductor, often standing and smoking at the back of the caboose. To me, that seemed a fantastic life–traveling cross country with a cheery, red car to sleep in. I imagined the engineers warming themselves around a cozy coal stove; at day’s end, the tired workers would crawl into tightly-made bunks and be rocked to sleep by the gentle swaying of the rail cars.
When I was in elementary school, we occasionally traveled by train to our grandparents’ home on the other side of the state. We watched the Michigan countryside from the windows and ate snacks which magically appeared from my mother’s bottomless tote bag. My amazing mother–our personal Mary Poppins–kept the five of us happily occupied and seated.
With the warmer nights, the sound of the late-night-trains travels to me across Sunset Lake. I am thankful that I am safe in my warm bed and think about those engineers and conductors sounding the whistles as they ride and rumble towards home.
It’s a Fine Life.