Encouragement
The old freight train lumbers by, pulling its eclectic mix of box cars, oblivious to the frustrated drivers who have been forced to line up and wait for it to pass. As the old train groans and slowly pulls its weighty cargo behind it, my mind wanders back to the old house with the tin roof that rested in the foothill of another train track.
Trains always do this to me, remind me of a time when innocence was not so unusual, and daydreams were the realities of hot summer days filled with bare feet and country cooking. My grandmother and grandfather lived in that house with the tin roof, and for a short period of time, so did my sister and I.
Every summer, probably from the time we could take care of ourselves, my sister and I spent the summer at our grandmother's house. Oh yes, our grandfather was there too, but it was Grandma's place as far as we were concerned. My grandfather was a rather taciturn man, a quiet reader of books who had little interaction with we kids. Grandma was the one who took care of us during those visits, in between washing the clothes and cleaning the houses of the "Miz Whoevers" in town.
The small town was Chriesman, Texas, right smack dab in the middle of South Central Texas nowhere. Yes, you could drive to Houston (on one side) and Dallas (on the other side), if you had a car. My grandparents did not have a car, so the extent of their world was Chriesman and the surrounding small towns filled with neighbors whose families were known to all.
Saturday was Market Day, and we would wait for "Cut'n" (Texas southernese for Cousin) Mamie to blow her horn as a signal to we waiting people that she was turning off the concrete road that ran in front of the house (though some distance from the house) and was on her way down the dirt road that led to the house. Since we could see the concrete road from the house, we would sometimes see 'Cut'n' Mamie's turquoise Chevy keep going down the concrete road without her blowing the horn. When that happened, only my grandfather could go to town (Caldwell) as he would have to walk out to the main highway and hitch a ride into town. We kids would have to stay at the house, nursing our disappointment. I don't remember how he got back home during those times, but he always got back home with groceries, and those groceries always meant a Hallelujah Good Eatin' Sunday morning breakfast. M-m-m-m, I can still taste those plump, juicy, red sausages.
The presence calls my attention to the fact that the train is still dragging its cargo. The memories return, continue to swirl around me, filling the car with their sights and sounds. I can remember most of them, those friends of my youth: Mr. Justus in his cowboy boots, he who died too young; Miz Willie, who once told my grandmother about writing out a prayer to pray in church, and when she got to her knees she put the piece of paper on the window sill so she could see it, only to have the wind blow it away; Miss Lizzie who baked wonderful Chess pies, and would come down to the house with the tin roof whenever my grandmother was defrosting the refrigerator, just to scrape the ice out of the freezer and eat it; my grandfather's old Native American friend, coming up to the house in the cool of the evening to visit, whose name I remember but cannot spell, who looked very much like my grandfather (my grandfather's mother was Native American); Aunt Lula, my grandmother's sister-in-law, who had as many "airs" about her as my grandmother had plainness; all the friends whose acquaintances I renewed every summer (and went to school with for three years) Dorothy Ray and the two Ray Anns and Nona Jean and Brother Boy/Sister Girl (twins) and Lee Anner and Robert Lee and James and Willis and Herbert and so many more whose names have been obliterated by time.
I remember my and Robert Lee's mutual adolescent "crush," and I remember the pain I felt, many years later, when I discover his name on a Viet Nam War Memorial in the City Square of Caldwell.
The freight train eventually pulls the last box car across the intersection. The red and white arms slowly unfold over the tracks, freeing the anxious cars to scuttle over to the other side of waiting. The car behind me blows its horn, and yesterday's memories scatter and float away from me like dandelion fluff in a strong wind.
Life moves by so quickly, wrapping itself in memories that lie dormant until something, like an old freight train, awakens those memories. The memories stretch and yawn, and look around in wonder at their surroundings, for they only remember yesterday. We may fret when we remember yesterday, but yesterday has made each of us who we are today, be that good or bad.
The memories may be painful; they may be pleasant. They may make us laugh; they may make us sigh. Whatever was left behind in yesterday can never be retrieved, but we should go back (especially when the memories are unpleasant) and review the life lessons yesterday has taught us. Then, we can either choose to learn and grow from those life lessons, to live in the now rather than dwell in the past, or we can remain trapped in the past until it is too late to change.
Funny, how much one can learn from a freight train.
Our times are in the hands of the LORD.
p.s. The good make us better, the bad make us wise.
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