Bird Droppings And Power Poles

I can hear the sound of a hoot owl, calling inquisitively, as I walk along alone, in the early evening, stepping from tie to tie or balancing precariously on a rail. I can smell the pungent odor of creosote mixed with the piney scent of the thick forest on either side of the track. There is only the sighing of the slight breeze through the trees and the tap tap tap of my feet on the ties to be heard.

This is one of my fondest memories of childhood. I was raised by my grandparents and spent most of my early years living in an “outfit car”. This is like a mobile home only it travels on rails instead of highways.

As the tap tap tap of my feet on the ties fades from my mind, I see the tail end of a line of shining cars parked on a siding in the foothills of the rocky mountains, their silver paint reflecting the late afternoon sun so brightly that my eyes hurt at the sight. As I come closer to the cars, I see a boxcar, the old wooden type, with pieces of rail running from one side to the other about four feet above the floor. These rails, having been designed as braces, were a favorite playground for the children of the camp.

As human nature must dictate somewhere in our genetics, I think it must have been because this car was considered dangerous, that we children decided this was a good place to play. the danger in this case was in the contents of the car, which was quick-lime. This product was used in the garbage pits and the outhouses to speed the process of decomposition. We children used to dare one another to walk the rails in the lime car to prove how brave and surefooted we were. In my case I wound up proving how stupid I was. I fell off and nearly lost my eyesight as a result.

To this day, when I see bird droppings or any other thing that remind me of lime, I can hear in my mind the crying and cursing which took place at the time; my grandmother crying and my grandfather cursing, while I was just trying to endure the pain in my eyes as the cold water was sprayed continually in my face in an effort to wash all the quicklime from my eyes.

I suppose for most people living in the present time, memories such as the one described above would see them as those of an adventure, like a camping trip or some similar thing. To me though these are memories of the only home I knew as a child. I still have feelings as close to what homesickness must be as I picture it, when I hear the whistle of a train or smell the creosote on a power pole. I still hear the sounds of steam locomotives in my mind and I guess I will hear the clicking and clacking of trains until I am dead and buried whereas most people have memories of the smells of a kitchen and a quiet evening on a porch, I have bird droppings and power poles to remind me of home. It’s a shame that the day of the railroad is almost past. It’s a lot like a home falling to ruin.