I love freight trains and the longer the better. I like the sound they make rolling down the track. I like reading the graffiti found on older boxcars. I even enjoy the wait as the train goes by ever so slowly. However, what I especially love about freight trains is the release of memories my mind captured many years ago. When I see a freight train, I think of my dad. He loved them first, especially those that seemed to be “three-miles long.”
Southern Railroad had a huge presence in my little North Georgia town located in the foothills of the Appalachians. We could not get very far from the community in any direction without crossing the railroad tracks. The various tones of the distant whistles echoed from each compass direction as trains rolled by all day and all night.
When I was a young girl being shuttled from piano lessons to ball practice to club meetings to church events, my dad was the chauffeur. So many times, he would stop at a railroad crossing listening for the loud whistle hoping for the train to appear around the bend. It drove me crazy. I did not have time to wait on a train.
Then one day I changed my mind. We approached the tracks and there came the train. There were no barriers or lighted gates in those days. My dad could have crossed the track with plenty of time to spare, but he stopped. He looked at me and said, “Nothing better than a three-mile freight train. It gives you time to think, to read, to stretch your legs or to talk to whoever is with you.” My dad wanted us to talk.
He told me stories of his childhood and his Textile league baseball days. He would ask me about school, piano lessons and the latest boyfriend. Oh, and there was a string of jokes to tell. He loved to tell a funny joke.
As the years marched on and he could no longer drive, I had the privilege of chauffeuring him around town. We wouldn’t be gone ten minutes when he’d ask if I had money. So, I would dig in my purse, the ash tray and the floor board looking for money. It was a ritual we both loved. He would laugh and start looking in the truck side pockets. Finally, we would have enough coins to buy a few Krystals and a drink.
We would picnic at the Oostanaula riverbank and talk and listen for the train whistles. We would ride down to the switching tracks to watch the engines and remember days gone by way too fast.
In these microwave days of hustle and bustle, consider yourself lucky when you’re delayed by a freight train and pull out your cell phone. Call your parents or your spouse, your children or grandchildren or just call a friend or neighbor to say hello. It’s a great time to talk to one another while you still can!
