 © Lisbeth Hamlin
|
The Language of Trains Click to read Click to |
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© Lisbeth Hamlin
|
The Language of Trains Click to read Click to |
The Language
of Trains
Emerging from darkness, the train heads north along the Hudson River. I remove my shoes,
take out some magazines, and settle in for the two-hour ride.
After the initial excitement of motion, the passengers around me are soon lulled by the rhythmic clacking of wheels on track, only to be roused by the conductor’s announcement as the train approaches each stop. It’s still daylight, and I feel a guilty pleasure at having escaped the city so early. The air-conditioned car will soon be too cold, but for now it’s a welcome relief from the oppressive heat in the station we’ve just left behind. To avoid sitting with a stranger, I sit on the landward side of the train. The more popular river side is full, and I always like to have two seats to myself.
For the first time I notice the ponds and waterways that are cut off from the river by the train tracks. Scattered Welds of corn sway within an arm’s reach of the rail. Perched randomly on the hillsides are what appear to be great castles and estates. They seem too large to be private homes, although they most certainly once were. Maybe now some of them are schools or institutions. Maybe some are empty.
For many miles a grass or weed has spread along the bank, turning much of the river green. The opposite shore is hazy. At times I see four or five distant ridges rising one after another. The last one so faint it might be my imagination.
My grandfather worked for the railroad. Not this one but another one, many years ago in Canada. Riding back and forth over hundreds of miles in a manually powered pushcart, he maintained a stretch of track in northern Saskatchewan. His job was to keep the line open for the grain and cattle trains that crossed the prairies.
"Poughkeepsie!" yells the conductor. He walks up the aisle, his change purse jangling. The whistle blows several times, short, long, then short again, and our train slows to stop.
More passengers board: a young girl in a summer dress and a backpack, an older woman rolling her luggage behind her. A man on the platform sits and stares, oblivious to the train’s noisy intrusion. Soon we’re moving again. Whistles sound: I imagine each one to be a coded message. The language of trains.
Grandpa’s dream was to own land and be a farmer, but the only work he could find was for the Canadian National Railroad. Even the hard life of a farmer would have been easier than working for the railroad on the harsh Canadian prairie.
"Rhinecliff!" calls the conductor. Well-dressed people line up in the aisle, anxious to begin their weekends.
There was little difference between weekends and weekdays for my grandfather. My grandparents had fled revolutionary Russia, sailed across the North Atlantic from Riga, Latvia, to St. Johns, Newfoundland, where they were met by the railroad. The Canadian government was sending immigrants out west to settle in the prairie provinces. Everyone else from the ship was greeted by friends or relatives, but my grandparents and their three small children were alone. They didn’t speak English. On the platform an official was calling out destinations and pointing to different trains. When "Saskatchewan" was called, Grandpa chose it because he liked the sound of it.
"Hudson in twenty minutes!" the conductor calls out, pointing toward the door at the far end of the car.
My grandfather bought his first farmland in Alberta, sight unseen. It flooded out before he could harvest it, a complete loss. My grandparents weren’t able to try farming again until their children were grown. Well into their fifties, they purchased a small raspberry farm in British Columbia and labored there for the next thirty years. It was a meager living, but they were content. One side of the farm bordered a railroad track. At night, inside their small farmhouse, they could hear the trains rolling through the valley. Maybe that’s why Grandpa bought that particular piece of land. He still liked the sound of the trains. He knew what the whistles meant.
Hearing rain, I look up and see droplets racing across the glass. The conductor sings out, "Beautiful, downtown, rainy Hudson!" End of my ride. Slowly rounding a long bend, the whistles blow, the train stops. Darkness has swallowed the river. In a misty, blue haze, I pack up my unread magazines and search the platform for a familiar face.
Profile
This admission came as something of a surprise. Especially because I’d been his hired writing hand for all these years at his design firm in New York. He proceeded to read a few of the stories to me. They were economical, to the point—like Peter, direct and honest. What I saw in Peter that day is the kind of private glee writers get from the act of writing itself.
—Beck Lee
Bio
Peter Galperin
Place of residence: New York.
Grew up in: Everett, Washington.
Day job: Graphic designer.
Education: B.F.A., University of Washington.
Awards: Three-legged sack race championship team (1967).
Current project: Advertising campaign for a large Brazilian bank.
Favorite book: Water Music by T. Coraghessan Boyle.
Cravings: Simplicity, solitude, and cashews (unsalted).
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