Train Rides
A story by Darlene Weyand
I was an excited four-year-old. I was to ride on the train to visit my grandpa and grandma six miles down the track. The train that went through our little town was a branch line of the old Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad. Mother bought my ticket and cautioned me not to lose it. I put it in my little purse with my pennies. Pennies were precious when I was young! The stationmaster offered to "keep an eye on me." Mother left.
I sat restlessly on the bench with the black wrought iron arm rests in the waiting room. Finally I told the Station Master I had to go potty. His first reaction was to ask why I didn't go before I left home. He was exasperated. The telegraph keys were making a rapid clicking sound the train was to arrive soon. A lady passenger offered to see to my needs. I thought I heard the Station Master heave a sign of relief.
When the train arrived, I was advised not to go outside. With all of the activity, I might get hurt. The engine was disconnected and went on down the track to the wooden water tower to fill the boiler. The drayman removed the merchandise for the local merchants from the freight car and loaded it onto the dray wagon. Now he, with his team of horses pulling the wagon, would drive down Main Street and make the deliveries. Bags of mail from the baggage car were placed on a cart on the platform, and soon some one would pick it up and take it to the post office. The engine backed up and the couplers meshed with a loud clang.
Only now could I board the passenger car. The conductor swung me up the steps, and I ran and climbed up on a seat. He asked me for my ticket. Yes, the pennies came out of my purse also and scattered over the floor. The conductor helped me retrieve them. Then he helped me up on the seat and admonished me to stay there. The train started with a jolt. We jerked and swayed on down the track. Occasionally the whistle blew as we approached a crossing. Smoke billowed from the smoke stack. Sometimes a dead cinder would blow through the open window.
Soon I spied my grandpa standing on the station platform. As soon as I could, I jumped into his arms. We climbed the hill to their little house. There was grandma on the front porch, arms outstretched, waiting to give me a big hug.
Many years later, I took my four-year-old daughter to visit her grandparents; not six miles this time, but sixty. We rode on the Rock Island Rocket enjoyed comfortable, soft, plush seats. The car was air conditioned and the ride was smooth and quiet. When we reached our destination, there were her grandpa and grandma standing on the station platform. We stepped down the steps into open arms and big hugs.
