Memory Rides the Rails

Forest fairies changing colors, autumn's patchwork pattern weaving in the foggy morning stillness before winter's barren grieving, up the river on the damp air, up hollows through the shadowed vales sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle: once more memory rides the rails. Childhood song for railroad watchers - a tinge of hobo in my veins, longing for the lonesome whistle like a lost child for his name. Life began beside the railway, an open door to fantasy; my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor hearing that whistle witchery. Hungry tramps in search of breakfast found our doorstep every time; hobo network communication marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine." Bleary eyes and beards all stubble made child imaginations fly and the tales with which we clothed them were wilder still than hobo lies. Oh, for the days when trains were magic: iron dragons breathing smoke and fire, lashing long tails through the valleys with monstrous strength that never tired. Oh, the secrets that were hidden behind the doors of plain boxcars; feel the untamed urge to mount them and plunder treasure from afar. Delight was ours beyond measure to waken on those special days, finding, in the night, the dragon had brought the circus train our way. See the bearded lady waving and catch the fat man's twinkling eye, smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor beneath our magic big top sky. Grown up am I; steam train magic comes swirling by once in a while to view autumn's fleeting pageant and make train lovers like me smile. Nostalgic, rhythmic beating, staccato yelps and sobbing wails make my soul a mental hobo; once more memory rides the rails. Copyright, 2000 Faye Lanham Gibson