“Look, out there—over out that window—See ‘em?” A man with gray, thin hair, stooped shoulders, and a wan complexion—a stranger--motioned to me excitedly from just across the train aisle with the wild glee of someone whose joy needed to be shared. I had been sitting in the dining car after dinner with a cup of tea, looking down at my glossy magazine, lost in the swirling dresses of Vogue’s spring season couture features, dreamily accepting the clanging of the train’s wheels and the jostling of the items on the tables. We were on our way north from Fort Lauderdale to Philadelphia, a trip that typically takes 24 hours by train.
I looked up and followed his shaky pointing fingers just in time to see geese—flocks and flocks of them—flying in formation over the south Georgia savannah lands, their bodies making long shadows over the water. The sun was starting to set and a rosy golden glow settled over the marshes. He leaned his old, spindly body back in his seat. “I always say them birds is the prettiest thing I ever did see, excepting my Sally,” he said still looking out. He turned to look at me, “Sally was my wife. Died 4 years ago, Part of me died too that day.” He picked up a cup from the table. We looked out the window in silence for a few minutes, each of sipping from our vessels. Then I asked, and he told me stories. (“Oh, she was a terrible cook—poor dear tried so hard and served it up with so much love I never said anything but good.” And, “When our son was born and she was in so much pain she looked up at me and says to me that it was the best day of her life ‘cause there was a new human that combined the best of the two of us. And here I was all worried about the money and the work. But she cut right through to the important parts.”). “How far are you going?” I asked as we reached Jessup, Georgia. He answered, “I’m going all the way to Washington, DC. My son is meeting me there—going to go live with him and his family. Don’t know how that’s going to work. My daughter-in-law, she don’t like me much—always trying to tell me what to wear and how to talk. I expect she’s not too happy about this, but my son insisted. I gotta get some medical tests. Cancer spread. I told him I’d be better off just letting the Good Lord take me in my old green chair on my porch in Palatka, but he won’t hear of it. Truth is, I want to see my grandson. He’s almost 20. I want to tell him some stories—let him know the strong people he come from. We got to tell stories—It keeps people alive.” I smiled. The sun had gone down and the windows now showed only the reflection of the inside. “How far you going?” he asked of me. I answered “Philadelphia”. He continued, “That’s a long way. I take this train cause I like to see the real land—I flew a couple of times, but it don’t feel right. That’s a place for those birds—not for me. So why do you ride the rails?” he asked. I shook my head, “I have a problem with my ears. My balance system is thrown off if I fly—the pressure causes me to feel so dizzy that I fall down. Kind of like there are magnets in my head that pull me over. It lasts for 10 days once it sets in. So my husband and I figured out how to travel a lot by train. We really like it—get a little bedroom for sleeping, get our meals, and meet people.” I smiled at him and he grinned back. “You know, I hear-tell that geese navigate by magnets in their heads. Amazing aren’t they” he answered. Then went on, “when I was a kid my papa wanted me to go out hunting them birds with him. He showed me where to go and how to walk and sit real quiet, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I was born 9 months and a week after he come home from WW2 and he never once talked about it. Closest he come was when he’d just lower his head and say that no one should ever have to see what he saw. Then he’d just shut up. After he died, I learned he helped liberate a concentration camp in Germany somewhere. Found some medals he’d gotten too. But he never wanted to talk about it.” His gnarled hands were now clutching a spoon as he stirred the liquid in his cup. He continued, “When I couldn’t kill them birds I thought he was terribly disappointed and I ran up to my room and slammed the door shut, embarrassed. He came in after me and sat right there at the edge of my bed and said to me, ‘son, there ain’t no shame in not wanting to kill. You got to go with what your heart tells you is right and wrong. I seen too much killing and I think that it takes a big man to admit he don’t have the stomach for it.’ Then my daddy, he stood up, and get this, he salutes me. Salutes me, turns on his heels and leaves the room. Twenty years later when we buried him, I did the same for him.” His voice was quivering as we were coming into Charleston. “Is that one of the stories you’re going to tell your grandson?" I asked. He looked, up and I could see the tears on his deeply wrinkled face. “Sure is,” he said, “Sure is. Gotta keep people alive” It was late and we said our good-nights and headed down the narrow hallway in opposite directions. The next morning at sunrise I opened the curtains of my sleeping compartment just as we were heading into DC and was greeted with light dancing on the Potomac River. When we stopped at the station, I saw my companion from yesterday evening shuffle slowly on the platform, cane in hand. He glanced up and saw me. I waved and he smiled and tipped his brown hat. Suddenly there was a young man coming toward him—racing on the concrete, arms open wide to embrace him. Even through the train’s thick glass windows I could hear him yell out “Grandpa! I’m so happy you’re here,” as he grabbed his bag, held onto his arm, and both men walked, chattering gleefully, toward the exit. “Gotta keep people alive.” Comments are closed.
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