Memoir Writers - Current Work in Progress

 

A long plaintive whistle in the middle of the night. Have you ever been awakened by that sound? The sound of a train pulling a mile long string of freight cars while trying to make the grade. This was a common happening when I was growing up in Pittsburgh, “The Smoky City”. From 4^th grade through High School, I lived about 100 feet from the mainline railroad tracks.   Trains ran east to the coast and west to all points. A single house, a narrow dirt street, and a four-foot drop-off separated us from the four train tracks.   Trains were a regular companion to my brothers and me. We played ball and walked to school next to those tracks.

Trains were our window on the world. During the war we saw long troop trains filled with soldiers going east to board ships going to war. It was sad and awe inspiring to see hundreds of young men leaving for war. We always waved. They usually waved back. If the train slowed, we tried to get their names and addresses. They shouted, “Bob from Oklahoma or John from Indiana.” 

I often wondered what it felt like to be on a troop train heading into the unknown (war.) I was, and still am, fascinated by war, combat, and the impact it has on individuals. In that war, the good war, the enemy was clear and evil. We were the good guys. I vividly remember Pearl Harbor. The first and virtually only time I ever saw my father cry was when his youngest brother, Uncle Page whom I was named after, was sent to the Pacific. I remember the Extra newspaper editions that came out announcing we had landed in Normandy. Still, for me, the troop trains remained the most intense reminder of what war really was. How many of those soldiers whose faces I saw in passing never came home? I often wonder. 

 During the railroad steam engine phase that lasted into the 1950s, my friends and I played softball or football in the street along side the tracks. We had to stop when a train went by to take the cinders out of our hair. Many times our mothers would rush outside to bring in hanging laundry to keep it from getting dirty from the soot of the trains. Often at mid day, streetlights and car lights would be illuminated in downtown Pittsburgh. It would be midnight at high noon. The trains were a part of our lives and we took the good things with the bad.

One of our favorite games was identifying the kinds of cars that moved over those rails: tank cars, box cars, gondolas, and flat beds. Counting those cars was also fun, and we ALWAYS waved when the caboose went by. Most of the time the conductor waved back if he was on the balcony at the rear of the caboose.

When repairing the tracks, the railroads typically used Mexican laborers. During their lunch break, they would sit on our porch, or a neighbor’s porch, and teach us Spanish words while they were eating lunch. Sometimes we traded lunch- a tortilla sandwich for a baloney one. My first tortillas and maybe their first baloney sandwich. They were always friendly and easy to talk too. We spoke to each other using sign language and the little English they knew. Today I retain the ability to communicate with another person even if we do not speak the same language.   I am so thankful for that skill. Amazingly, by some 6^th sense, I can intuit my way around a foreign country without knowing the language. I always find it a delightful challenge, and it has taught me that human beings are much more alike than they are different.

The railroad tracks took on a new importance when we had to walk to the junior high school, which was located on the other side of the tracks. There were two routes to the school. One was approximately 1/3 mile away and the other was directly across the tracks. Our parents warned us to go the long way, but we defied them and crossed the tracks, all four of them. We knew approximately when trains would be coming, so it was fairly safe. Once, I remember falling on the tracks spread-eagled across the tracks and hearing the train bearing down on me. I got up fast and ran. I don’t think I ever told my mother about that incident.

We knew how dangerous the trains were, traveling at the speeds they did. One summer a man walking on the tracks was hit. I will never forget the mangled body, his scalp and the workers sweeping up pieces of him into a bushel basket. Things were more primitive then.

 I remember vividly another incident with our neighbor’s dog. Their collie ran on to the tracks. People were standing in the dirt road, above the gutter, yelling to him to get off the tracks. The yelling got louder as a train approached and became increasingly frantic, but no one went to get him. Ultimately the noise was reduced to nothing but legs churning under the train. To this day I regret not going after that dog, and I wonder why none of the adults tried to rescue him.

Now the steam engines are gone and the replacement diesels have taken over. The smoke and grime are gone and most regrettably the whistles. But once in a while I hear a train whistle and it takes me back to those nights in Swissvale, the trains, the soldiers, and the cinders in my hair.

 

 

As the early morning sun begins to rise

I feel its gentle warmth envelop me

like a soft satin sheet draping my body.

Closing my eyes, I lean over my deck rail

slowly inhaling the fragrance

of flowers around me.

Where there is space on the deck

there are potted flowers for me to enjoy.

Slowly, I sip my first cup of coffee and

just as slowly I blend the aroma of fresh coffee

with the fragrance of sweet flowers.

Coupled together the scents are exhilarating.

Around me, before me, beside me, I inhale a blend of

sweet pea, roses and heliotropes in full bloom,

each type vying for prizes in a tournament of glory.

Nearby I hear the sprinklers sputtering,

refreshing and preserving these gorgeous scenes

as long as mother nature will allow.

What a wonderful way to begin a summer season

what a beautiful day to be alive and

bask in the richness of nature.