The Rumble of a Train

Because of where I live, I often stop for trains, long ones, filled with cargo to deliver, or empty and en route to deliver the cargo. Stopping for trains I found myself wishing that I had occasion to ride one again. Though never entirely comfortable, I loved riding the train: watching the changing scenery; overhearing conversations; visiting the dining car and writing out my order with a little pencil on a little card (I loved club sandwiches with the little orange or red flags); admiring the conductors' and porters' and waiters' balance; dozing and reading and sleeping, rocking to the sway of wheels on track and lullabyed by the clickety-clack.

Once, when I was 17, I awoke on a train sometime in the transition from night to morning, somewhere between Nashville and the Tennessee border with Alabama. I could hear the quiet breathing of sleepers around me, and beyond the window, deep snow, still smooth, covered the fields out to the rolling horizon above which hung a perfect moon, shining like a new dime.

Alone in company on a train under the moon -- that was a lovely journey.