Late at night, when the neighborhood is quiet, I can often hear the sound of a train whistle in the distance. It’s a deep, steady sound and it always brings me comfort.

In middle school I tucked my long brown hair into a blue and white striped engineer’s hat every day — it was a gift from my dad, the Lionel train collector. I wasn’t very interested in electric toy trains back then but I loved the hat. And I loved my daddy more.

Dad constructed long wooden tables in the basement and would conduct from behind the bulky black Lionel ZW power controller. I’d watch as he’d glide the levers forward and back sending the trains round and round on miles of track. Dad also customized lovely shelves and displayed his favorite trains for all to enjoy. I liked looking at the windows of the trains where you could see the black shadows of tiny people. I would make up stories about the tiny people and their grand destinations. I’ll never forget the smell of that musty basement…my daydreams rising with each realistic puff of white smoke. I wondered, did my dad do the same thing?

Nadia’s little son, Cole, pointed and bounced up and down with excitement as the Little Steam Train pulled up to the station in Tilden Park. I did too! We climbed aboard the tiny car and watched the white steam rise from the locomotive’s chimney. “Just like your tea kettle at home” the conductor explained with a smile as we handed over our tickets. Click. Click. Cole looked through the circle in his newly punched ticket. Then the bell clanged and the train slowly chugged forward. Cole’s eyes widened as we picked up speed and edged our way through the beautiful countryside. Light streamed through the tall trees and we tilted our heads way back to take it all in. The two short tunnels added to the excitement — we screamed in the sudden burst of darkness and listened to our voices echo and twist together. As the train hugged the corners we enjoyed spectacular views of the Bay and pointed out patches of vibrant purple and red wildflowers along the track. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the cool breeze. I simulated choo-choo sounds in my head and danced in between the moment and memories of the musty basement. The ride ended too quickly.

Next time I will wear my engineer’s hat…and bring my father.

P.S. “Life is train travel – not all passage and carriage. It is single scenes, one at a time, out the window. Laundry hanging on a line. A warehouse. The river’s shore. Each sight out the window has hundreds of stories behind it. And hundreds of stories before those hundreds of stories began. The rose, made of sugar, on the icing, on the cake.” – From Notes on the Kitchen Table by Bob Greene & D.G. Fulford

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