How is it that wee ones still know the sounds trains make though they may never have been to a train station much less taken a ride? A headline in the mostly ads weekly throw away for the neighborhood opened not a story but a series of snapshots of trains in my life. In Bellaire, the suburb/city of Houston, trains may not blow whistles during the night and disturb the sleep of residents. Trains of my first two decades were the second most available transportation after cars and four lines cut through Hammond to cover all points on the compass. One of my earliest memories is to turn over in the night, barely note that “lonesome whistle blowing,” and drift back to sleep thinking all was right in the world.
Like turning a page in a photo album, train memories are a little jumble. Maybe the station itself is a good place to start. A sturdy brick oblong building long enough to have a ticket office, an area for sitting, restrooms, and at one end an eatery that may have been the Whataburger of the time. Our house was at the foot of Charles Street which dead ended into the depot several blocks up. We could walk down on a Friday night for the rare treat of a bought hamburger. There were three tables with ice cream parlor chairs and everyone else sat at the counter.
Most trains rides were to New Orleans for shopping trips. Twice a year, Mother and I would catch the City of New Orleans at 9:00 a.m. coming south after its overnight run from Chicago. She always wore a hat and white gloves. Usually some other mother/daughter were available for visiting on the way over the lake and through the swamp. We shopped our way from Union Station down Canal Street, had lunch at Morrison’s Cafeteria, and were back to catch the 5:00 heading north to Chicago.
Riding trains taught me how to travel independently. My birth dad had a church in Marietta, Arkansas, and in Springdale, Arkansas. By the time I was ten, I was sent on my two week summer visit alone. I don’t remember having a name tag or being assigned to any helper. A porter helped put my suitcase overhead. Mother provided me with two new comic books, a library book,and a lunch with two sandwiches in case someone turned up who was hungry. When the call was made for Memphis or Siloam Springs, I gathered my belongings and disembarked. Someone I knew was always standing right there to hug and welcome me.
I tried to give our sons the thrill of the ride. I put a five and four year old on a local at the same depot I knew. My daddy left ahead of time to be in Ponchatoula to pick them up. They were already the generation of airplanes and the train in Hermann Park may have been as exciting for them. For me, it was their rite of passage. These reminiscences have been longer than most, and some of you know I have left out David stories with railroad passes and a bell business. Maybe the only good comment about Mussolini is, “He made the trains run on time.” My train lesson is you need to have a ticket and be ready to go when the train comes along.
Whenever the cloud lifted above the tent, the Israelites set out. At the Lord’s command, they set out.
Numbers 9:18,23
Let Me Tell Ya 