The Train Ride

I remember my first train ride like it was yesterday. It is not the train itself that holds a special place in my memory, rather it is the time spent with a person who was dear to me. As I recall it now, the day seems to have taken place in a wonder-filled dream of my childhood.

One splendid winter day my grandfather arrived at my classroom door having, to my great surprise, come to pick me up early from school. It was a frosty Friday afternoon, and the weather report warned of snow. Exiting the school, I hopped in the car with papa and together we drove off, headed toward a destination unknown to me. Within the hour we arrived at the Amtrak station deep in the heart of Atlanta. Leaving the car behind, we got in line for tickets and minutes later we found ourselves a part of the hustle and bustle in a large train terminal. Taking a cue from my grandfather we made our way to a waiting area on the roof of the depot, having a few minutes to spare before our departure. The snow had begun to fall; I remember the burst of cold prickly air that hit me as the station’s exterior door slid open. Moreover, I can vividly recall the feeling of the tiny snowflakes as they fell, ever so lightly, upon my nose and cheeks. Christmas wasn’t far off and seasonal lights could be seen from one end of the city skyline to the other. To add to the festivity in the air, my grandfather, being the portly man that he was and having a great white beard, looked just like Saint Nicholas. He was often stopped by small children, like myself, and asked if he was St. Nick, to which he’d usually reply, “I’m  one of Santa’s helpers.” That moment, on the roof of the railway station, was nothing short of magical. I stood there, holding my grandfather’s hand, looking out over the brightly lit city and oh what memories that night has procured in my life since then.

A boarding call rang out from the hidden speakers; it was for our train! Holding fast to papa’s hand we slipped through the congested corridor, pausing momentarily to hand over our tickets to a man wearing all blue. Papa had given me my ticket so that I could proudly hand it to the man myself. Finding our seats, we settled in for our ride. I had the seat right next to the window and though the sun had already retired for the night the moon now shone high above, reflecting brilliantly off the new fallen snow. Town after town, station after station, we’d pass one, we’d stop at one, as we continued on. A patch of trees, a group of buildings, another patch of trees, someone’s frozen backyard - this is what I saw through my window, when I wasn’t staring at my own reflection appearing like a specter in the foggy glass between me and the darkened scenery.

We rode that train into north Georgia, where we’d gone to pick up my grandma who was visiting our relatives there. I knew we could have taken a car but I think my grandpa wanted to do something special with me. He succeeded! What I remember most about the whole occasion is the look of joy on my papa’s face as he watched my eyes light up time and again that day, starting with the moment he appeared in my classroom doorway.

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