kids and trains

In a thriving college town, no real estate opportunity is passed by. Any house-size lot eventually grows some sort of rentable living quarters. This lot happened to be tucked behind an grand old Victorian style house on a tree-lined avenue that dead ends just before the river. Proud and dignified, the two story Victorian shadows a dirt drive that curves around to the back, where a separate two bedroom flat hides from view. Past the house, the yard drops off suddenly, a five foot drop to the ground below. This ditch directly behind the house must be the reason for the unusually low rent. Railroad tracks gleam in the sunlight, not 20 feet from the bedroom windows.

Looking wistfully at the tracks, Rich said, “I wonder when the next one will be. I heard like, five go by last night.”

“Maybe we can check the train schedule online,” someone answers.

Their backs warm from the sunlight; they lean back into the grass, still green, but covered with the red and orange leaves of fall. Beer cans in hand; the friends relax, legs dangling off the ledge to the tracks.

“The first of November and I’m hot!” Rachel said. “This is just silly.”

“Hey Shalyn, do you remember when we used to walk along the railroad tracks and pick up the big spikes?” Skyler asked, pointing at a rusty seven inch nail laying along the tracks.

“Yeah. . . why did we want those again?” Shalyn said.

“No idea. Just kid stuff,” Skyler answered.

“And those glass bulbs that were on the old electrical lines. Sometimes they were clear and sometimes they were that turquoise blue,” Shalyn said. “They were pretty.”

Hours later, they are inside the house, listening to music and reminiscing when they hear it.

Midsentence, Shalyn trails to a stop before jumping to her feet, saying, “It’s here!”

Out the door and down the hill, they are eager and waving when the train rushes by. The blast of air sends the leaves swirling around their bodies, they are laughing, hooting and hollering against the unbelievable loudness of the train. Horn blaring, wheels clacking, the sound is carried, fading into the twilight of the most perfect fall day.