 Summer Train Ridesby Judith G. StoughEvery summer from the mid-1940s to the mid-1950s, my mother and stepfather put me on a train to visit my natural father and his extended family in Tennessee. My parents were divorced when I was three. There was no legal requirement that I visit my natural father, but my mother thought it was important for me to know that family, explaining that they were "good people." As summer approached each year, my mother and I would have numerous discussions about the upcoming train trip. Using my powers of persuasion, I would explain to her why I didn't want to visit a father I did not know, as well as many other unknown relatives. But despite all my reasons to avoid the trips, my mother always won the argument. When the day of my annual train journey finally arrived, my suitcase would be packed with freshly ironed summer cottons and a bag lunch would be prepared for the trip. My mother, stepfather, little brother and I would stand on the station platform and watch the big, black steam engine screech to a halt with a final belch of white smoke. The closer the train came, the greater my feeling of dread grew, until sometimes it exploded into tears. With hugs and assurances about how much fun I was going to have, I was handed over to the conductor. My mother always told him to look out for me during the trip and that my father and aunt would meet me at my destination. As the train pulled out, I would wave to my mother, stepfather and little brother until they shrank to the size of three tiny dots on the horizon. My little brother always wanted to ride the train, so one time my mother and stepfather let him ride with me to the next town, which was only three miles away. They drove there and picked him up. The train ride, which took about four hours from southwest Virginia to eastern Tennessee, bombarded my senses with new sights, smells, sounds and textures. As I settled into my seat, I could feel the rough, hard texture of the woven straw seats on the backs of my bare legs. Every time I moved, the rough seats would scratch my legs. Because of the summer heat, I stuck to the seats and when I got up there would be imprints of the woven straw pattern on the backs of my knees. Often as I gazed out the window, I would see the reflection of a little girl with large, brown eyes; dark brown pigtails tied with blue ribbons, dressed in a blue-checked gingham dress, wearing black patent Mary Janes with white anklets. Beside her on the seat would be a brown lunch bag. She was usually not smiling. A cacophony of noises accompanied the train as it snaked through the lush, green farmlands and rolling hills of southwest Virginia into eastern Tennessee--loud hissing from the release of the steam into the smokestack and the brake pistons, sharp, metallic, clanging as the wheels bounced over the rails, and long, mournful groans as the train lumbered up steep grades. The best sound of all was the shrill sound of the train's whistle as we came to railroad crossings and approached stations. There was never a quiet moment on those train rides. My train trips were always in the summer, usually in July when it was very hot, so the train windows would be lowered from the top several inches. The idea was to circulate air, but the result was often a barrage of cinders blowing through the window from the smokestack. Many times I remember going the bathroom to wash cinders from my eyes. This cloud of cinders also carried with it an acrid, smokey smell that would often make my eyes water and linger on my clothes and in my hair. 
One of the most pleasurable and interesting parts of the train trips was watching the scenery go by. The train never went very fast, so I was able to get long looks at red barns, cattle grazing, hay being cut, children and sometimes older people waving from front porches. I especially like waving to the children. We would all wave until we could no longer see each other. I wondered as the train slowly moved through those small, rural communities: Who lived there? Were there little girls like me? Had they ever ridden a train all by themselves? Did they have a father and another family they had to visit each summer? The names of these towns always intrigued me -- Rose Hill, Dryden, Ben Hur, Ewing. I especially liked to hear the conductor come through the train announcing the names of the towns. He always seemed to draw out the last syllable -- Ben Hur became "Ben Hurrrrr." Then as passengers boarded he would shout, "All Aboarrrrd." He seemed to enjoy saying these names as much as I enjoyed hearing them. As the train neared Cumberland Gap, my destination, I became aware once again of that feeling of dread. As the train approached the station, I could see two familiar figures on the platform. The man had black hair like mine and wore a brown fedora, a dark blue suit, and held a cigar in his right hand. The woman also had dark hair, wore a cotton flowered housedress and clutched a large pocketbook against her chest. They would sometimes shade their eyes from the late afternoon sun with their hands, as the train approached. These people were my father and Aunt Florence. After the train came to another squealing, lurching stop, the conductor, after placing a small set of steps in front of the train steps, would set my suitcase on the platform and carefully help me down the steps. Another summer visit would begin. As I grew older, I came to realize that these summer train trips were a gift to me from my wise and courageous mother. It was through them that I came to know and love my other family and to form lifelong relationships with them. These relationships developed and grew during soft, sultry summer days as my cousins and I rode horses, climbed through hay lofts, waded in creeks, milked cows and spent many hours under the spreading branches of ancient shade trees, eating candy from my father's store--The Confectionery, as it was called then. These summer train rides that started with reluctance and dread ultimately became a symbol of motherly wisdom, self-discovery and the importance of family connections for me. |