Train

Tweetsie

After ruby mining, horseback riding, and waterfall sightseeing in the Appalachian Mountains of Carolina, my family boarded a brightly painted, open-air train.  This was the pinnacle of excitement for three year old me.  I didn’t know where it was going to take us, but I was in no need of a destination.  The lanky engineer shouted, “All aboard Tweetsie Railroad!” I clapped my excitement as the wheels began to creek awake, giving way to the steam of the engine.

The sun was in my eyes when the brakes squeaked to a stop a short time later.  The tribal drumbeats started slowly and then quicker, matching the beat in my chest.  Several tall, pale, college boys topped with scarlet, auburn, and golden feathers snaked onto the small locomotive – its painted colors perfectly matching those of the crooked crown of the headdresses.  Plastic tomahawks raised in the air, war paint smudged, and cries mocking those they had heard in movies with cowboys as the protagonists - the hired help made their way down the aisle, offering the tourists a truly inauthentic, native experience.

I have no memory of fear before that point, when one blonde boy bent down to come face-to-face with three year old me.  The pace of the drumbeat became frantic and my heart became a hummingbird as he moved past me to haunt the next person in his path - disgracing everything the Cherokee heritage stands for.

It wasn’t until over twenty-five years later that I realized the effect this tourist trap had on me.  From the parking lot, with the powwow still a tiny scene in the distance, I heard the drum circle and my heart fluttered with anxiety.  This reaction – involuntary – puzzled me until I forced myself to question, “What’s going on here?”

Day 15: Pobject's train

There are too few trains these days.

If Johnny Cash were alive today, he’d have to write about leaving his lover at the ticker counter of a too-big airport (any farther and it’s ticketed passengers only). It wouldn’t be the same.

They’re too few now, but the few persist. On hot nights in June, with the windows open we can hear them wail as they roll along on the far side of the river, three or more miles off.

What train took me here?

I wondered this as I lay on my bed, the view through the window to the porch, where were some simple things, a cheap rotating fan, garage sale furniture tainted with dog pee, and a wobbly volleyball net that took an hour to erect. Beyond was the back yard, a quarter-acre of dog-trodden grass, an old rock wall making the plot seem smaller than it really is.

We move so fast sometimes that we lose touch with our younger selves, our ten-years-ago selves, the selves we left standing at some past station. They were the ones we left standing on the platform when the train pulled away.

One of mine stood on a radio-station rooftop in downtown Champaign and waited while the Earth’s shadow ate away the moon.

Another stood transfixed in a low-lit frat house in Nashville and watched an adorable redhead dip her hips to “Dancing Queen.”

We forget that one day they were us, too.

What train took me here?

I took a young friend and colleague out for a drink or two last Friday night, and he warned me: “look out, you’ve got a target on your back now.” When you don’t matter at all, everyone’s your friend. But I suspect I’ve gone about as far as I can on this line without making a few enemies now and then.

Sometimes I feel as though I’m waiting for the next outbound train, and I’m not particular about which way it’s headed.

Day 14: Lobject’s train

I grew up in a large neighborhood off an even larger street in Charlotte. The train was consistent—vague then loud then screaming until it disappeared, suddenly unexposed.

When I was 6, I’d wake up to the train and often not be able to fall back asleep. I’d watch TV, eat a bowl of cereal and wait for the house to buzz with life.

When I was 10, I’d hear the same 4am train howl through the window and cover my ears with a pillow but it never really helped. I had to wait for the sound to muffle on its own.

When I was 16, the roar sounded like home. It put me to sleep. I relaxed in its musical pattern and often waited on it before I could close my eyes.

The train became part of the neighborhood, my house, my routine, and my childhood. Still, on nights when I can’t sleep, I think of the train’s lyrical sirens and the sweet harmonies of my youth.