Train Song

That train. It comes all hours of the day and night, though less at night. My grandchildren squeal with terror and delight when they hear one come through. I'm trying to teach them things like: "God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of love and power and a sound mind." They calm down, but then next time that whistle blows, I get a lapful of kids. 

If you live here for long, you start to notice that there are distinct qualities about each train, how it moves and sounds. The length and breadth of whistle styles can either make you happy or make you want to blow something up. Seven years we've been here and the personalities of the trains (and their engineers) still intrigue me. I may never get to ride on one, but I sure hope so. It seems so romantic, to race through the countryside all the way to Birmingham or New Orleans. It costs as much as a short cruise on a boat to the Bahamas, so I keep skipping over it. But maybe one day...

The train slows us down, separates the north from the south, and reminds us of long ago. The nostalgic connection of the past runs through my psyche every time I notice the whistle. Interesting how, over time, it quits being so noticeable unless you're trying to talk to a neighbor or get over the tracks before the bank closes. It just becomes a part of the rhythm of life here. When I've played with the Carrollton Community Wind Ensemble at the Mill Amphitheatre, it is always humorous to see when the train is going to interrupt a serious piece of music. Last time we played there, we decided to stop playing if a train came through. Of course, it didn't. 

My MawMaw's house was practically on the tracks in Smyrna, so I grew up thinking trains were awesome. I wound up connecting the sounds to the emotional heartstrings of loved ones. Trains make me think of MawMaw and her house and of course, Johnny Cash. "I hear that train a-comin' -- it's comin' round the bend..." My early childhood is a sepia-toned, dusty film filled with old folks, old houses, trains and tinny music from a little transistor radio. It wasn't that long ago, but it was a thread that can't be pulled too hard. Those pieces of the old South are gradually disappearing, some for good reason and some for lack of players. I keep a place for it back in my brain. Keep the good, learn from the bad.