Overnight on the Train

The Boston cars were at the front of the train. We walked a couple hundred yards until a conductor pointed to metal stairs we could climb to enter our car. I remembered LILO from college, Last-In-Last-Out, a supply system. Cost accounting, perhaps? Dad and I found a seat quickly, thanks to the boarding call of seniors able to go through the boarding gate to the platform before the general public. It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t new. It didn’t have WiFi. It wasn’t for business people traveling from Boston to New York City. It was for lugging people 1,600 miles. It was a vinyl nest for 23 hours.

At 9:32 p.m. we pulled out of Union Station. Lights would stay on until 10 p.m. then they would be dimmed, except for the aisle lighting. I walked to the bathroom and, through seeing the various passenger sleeping configurations, I learned what a flight attendant would have helped us with. “Dad, push this lever and the foot rest comes down. There must be a lever to make the leg rest pop up, too – like a recliner.” Several passengers had pulled the leg rest up to be horizontal, aligned with the seat. If on her own, a person could create a small bed out of a two-seat-leg-rest up combination. I couldn’t envision the farmer or his daughter trying this maneuver. But the leg rest could potentially make sleeping more comfortable.

By 10 p.m. most people went out with the lights. I looked at Dad. He was wide awake trying to imagine what he was seeing as the dots of city lights and dark country swept by. Until 1 a.m. I played Solitaire and looked at Dad, looking out the window. Then with my travel pillow around my neck and the aisle lighting shining in my eyes, I catnapped, waking up occasionally to look at Dad, who was still looking out the window.

At 5 a.m., I woke up to see Dad, looking out the window. “Did you sleep?” Shaking of the head. His “good morning” was, “We are only in Ohio!?!? We’ll never make it to Boston by 9:30!” Oh, dear… “Dad, we don’t get into Boston until 9:30 tonight.” Dad looked at me a little bewildered, perhaps waiting to see if I was pulling his leg. I nodded, confirming arrival time.

Well, it was too late for him to sleep, for the choice to take the train meant Dad could see the countryside. And now that daylight was here, Dad looked out the window, giving his imagination a break as the sunrise illuminated what he was seeing.

(After Dad's two-week vacation with us in the Northeast, it was time to head home for An Early Iowa Christmas.)

Union Station

(The first part of this story is "How did your crops do this year?") Union Station.  After a bite to eat and reading a few newspapers, Dad and I zig-zagged down an escalator and through a crowded hallway to our boarding lounge.  I led the way with an occasional glance to make sure Dad was still with me.  I turned the last corner, looked behind me, and he wasn't there.  A silly jab of panic as if I had lost my 2-year-old swept over me.  I backtracked 20 yards to find him perched against a wall with that tight-lipped tough stoic look awash on his face.  The look I see in my bathroom mirror every morning before I take a shower.  Dad thought I was checking things out, and he didn't want to get wound up in the coil of people who were waiting for another train.  Confirming that our lounge was pretty empty, I coaxed him to follow me again.  With over an hour before we could board the Amtrak train that would take us to Boston, we garnered three seats in the lounge.

Eight small children were taking advantage of the wide open space before the 23-hour train ride.  Three moms, no dads, sat waiting.  Dreading?  The tolerance for what was OK was uncertain between the moms at first.  Then one mom loudly pulled the oldest boy, probably around 7 years old, for some antic.  “Go look at that wall!  And don’t look at me!”  A bit later, a train station employee brought back a 3-year-old little girl from down the hall out of another mom’s sight, saying something to the effect that it wasn't safe – for other passengers or the little girl.

Four well-dressed 60- to 70- ish-year-old women came in chatting loudly.  From their bewildered looks, they weren’t sure if they were in the right lounge.  The briskness of their language and accent left me labeling them from Eastern Europe.  A family of Mennonites – mom, dad, and three older girls – sat in a corner of the lounge.  The calico dresses, pinafores, and squared, starched white bonnets identified them as Mennonites, not Amish.  The Amish women who live near Mom and Dad wear solid colors and softer, non-angular white bonnets.

A young white woman with a ukulele sticking out of her backpack sat on the floor, casually drinking a can of beer.  A young black man with dreads, a quiet voice, and an unidentified accent approached her and her ukulele.  Within seconds of the ukulele coming out, she was leading a mini-music session with eight kids clustered around her, each wanting a turn with this exotic instrument.  They argued over turns.  “Just make sure everyone gets a turn.  Play a little bit then pass it around.  Share.” Her voice was soft and idealistic.  Had this modern-day young hippie seen three of the boys practice punching one another, per Mom’s direction?  These boys practice survival more than do sharing.  Yet, the ukulele jerkily made its way around the circle of kids.

On his own, a middle-aged Amish man, looking more conservative than the Mennonite father, entered the lounge.  A 400-pound man came into the lounge and sat down.  People cleared around him.  His clothing didn't cover his stomach and the body odor would surely get worse during a 23-hour train ride.

The rest of the cast filtered in quietly, nearly unnoticed.  Many carried pillows and blankets.  Couples of all ages.  Young men traveling together.  Some pierced and tatooed.  And some not.  Young women traveling together.  All looking at their personal devices more than at one another.  Older women traveling in pairs, already looking tired.

Just before boarding call, three young nuns in full habit whooshed into the lounge.  Their round plain faces were framed by a layer of tight white starched material then loose black fabric flowing over the strict white.  With their presence, we had all been blessed.

This tiny microcosm of humanity, including a farmer and his daughter, crowded the boarding gate facing that one thing we all had in common at this moment: a long train ride east out of Union Station.

(Our journey continues in Overnight on the Train...)

"How did your crops do this year?"

“How did your crops do this year?” Stunned, my dad thought this 30-something woman, a stranger at the small Iowa airport was pretty intuitive to walk up to him and ask this question.  “I guess she recognizes a farmer when she sees one!” Dad said of the Illinois native who now lives in D.C.  She too is a farmer’s daughter.

I wonder what she noticed first: Clean work boots and pin-striped bib overalls?  The sleek black jacket with the small Pioneer seed corn symbol stitched on the left chest?  The black Garst seed corn cap?  Or the plain black mock turtle neck under the bibs?

All in all, Dad was one spiffed-up farmer with these black dress clothes blending seamlessly with his bib overalls and work boots.  Dad looked sharp.  He could have been going to a farm convention in those clothes.

***

Sunday morning started early for me in Indianapolis.  I was up at 4:30 a.m., after a 3-day conference there, so I could catch a plane to Chicago and then another to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where Dad was going to meet me at the airport.  His day started the night before; he didn’t sleep much Thursday night.

At 10:50 a.m., I deplaned in Cedar Rapids and said “hello” to the other farmer’s daughter.  Then Dad and I got on the road in his little Colorado pick-up truck to Chicago: a 4-hour drive ahead of us.  We were going to catch a 9:30 p.m. train out of Union Station that would take us both to Boston – a 24-hour journey on the rails.  Dad was heading East to spend two weeks with us.

After getting lost and driving in circles trying to find a Cracker Barrel in Davenport, we calmly made our way to a parking spot at one of O’Hare airport’s remote parking lots.  Driving the Midwest grids between Iowa & Illinois and recognizing north & south 4-lanes around O’Hare felt like putting on a familiar glove.  I don’t have a glove like that in Boston.  Yet.

We parked his truck.  “Now what?” asked Dad.  My first thought was to follow the crowd.  We moved our bags and suitcases to a bus-stop shelter.  “We haven’t done this before – we need to catch a taxi.  Does a shuttle run through here?”  I asked three people in general.  One man, on his way to Singapore, became our guide – after a brief conversation.  “So,” he looked at Dad, “you’re going to Boston.  How do you feel about seafood?”  To which Dad replied, “I love a good burger.”  Laughing aloud, “Now that’s an Iowa farmer!!”  He watched us board then the bus shuttle, then helped us onto the tram, and directed us out onto the platform at the international terminal, the first tram stop.

***

We stepped off the tram and looked around for an elevator.  “What are you carrying that for?” asked an airport employee.  That was a suitcase without wheels, I was unsure if he had ever seen one this size before.  “Wait here,” I’ll find a cart.  I shook his hand and thanked him as he directed us to the elevator which would take us to the lower level where the taxis were waiting.

The elevators opened and the international terminal felt familiar.  How many times had Bill and I returned from visiting his family right through those gates?  Three men were facing west, standing quietly, murmuring prayers.  The terminal bustled, activity driven by chaos.  I was reminded that walking on the right is part of our American culture.  People moved in the direction they needed to go.  I dove into the crowd, glancing behind me hoping that Dad would stay on my heels. “Are we close to the door?” Dad asked.

***

“How long have you been driving?” Dad asked.  The upbeat taxi driver replied, “It will take about 30 minutes with Sunday evening traffic.”  I said, “How long have you driven a taxi?”  “Ohhh, about five years.”  “Where are you from?” I asked.  “Nepal, where Mt. Everest is.  I’ve been here about eight years.  I love Chicago!”  Then it dawned on me.  Dad was asking about the cabby’s ability to drive, a kind of pretest to help Dad judge how tightly he would need to be holding on.  I was asking about the driver, his culture, his life.  “There you go, finally, here!” announced the driver after a very smooth drive, free of any aggressive maneuvers or heavy braking.

***

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With four hours to wait, we walked into Union Station and found a table.  I felt electric; after all, the only place I had gotten us lost was in Davenport, Iowa.  My part was done; now we relied on the train.

Dad looked ashen. “I just realized how very strange this must all be to you, Dad.”   He nodded as he ate his Chicago hotdog.

(Meet the characters at Union Station...)

Dancing on Halloween Morn

Some stories take a while to write themselves: days, months, even years. This is Dancing on Halloween Morn.

Breathless.  It’s Halloween morning.  I haven’t been climbing stairs or jogging.  The music’s loud.  And I’m dancing in the kitchen.

October was a success.  Each day, for a second or an afternoon, I peeled back the heavy translucent rubber windshield comprised of problem-solving, decision-making, chauffeuring, worrying.  And I absorbed the colors and crispness of fall.  Colors burned impressions that will take me through to the next season of cold, through the seasons of warmth, until I stand again at October 1st.  Where I will prepare for that change which is now 47 years familiar.  With Halloween here and the month of thankfulness beginning tomorrow, I’m full.  Content.  Like I just ate a big Thanksgiving dinner that was blessed with my granddad’s words.

I cook.  I dance.  And tonight I will be a witch.  This morning, four years ago, I was GI Jane.  My hair had started to fall out with the chemo, so I had it buzzed off at 7:30 a.m. in the salon, before the days’ clients, the regulars, opened the salon door.  I was an irregular that morning.

This morning, I skipped the 3-product process to straighten, glossen, smoothen my bobbed, wavy hair.  It dried naturally.  Strings of velvet danced in the wind as I drove, windows down, that familiar route home from school drop-off.  My fingers felt it and remembered.  The short spikes of four years ago.  Soft chicken fuzz.  Tight, tight spiral curls.  Loose curls.  And now the luxury of these soft, wild, living waves.

So… we celebrate.  Me and my hair.  Loud music.  A steady, heavy drum beat.  We dance in the kitchen on Halloween morn.