A Train Story

Yet another story I wrote for my writing class. This one is based on my fond memories of
riding on trains but most of the facts and the gentleman on the train are fictional.

My daughter and I recently visited the railroad museum in Snoqualmie, WA and it occurred to me that she has never been on a train trip. Telling her about the trains we saw and taking photographs, I was taken back to my childhood and my fondest memories of passenger trains and an era long gone by.

Standing on the platform in the frigid December air, I shiver as I wait with my mother and older brother for the train to pull into the station. We are going to visit our older sister because she couldn’t make it home for Christmas. It was the first time she has been away from home for the holidays and the house seemed empty yesterday without her. To some people the eighteen hour train ride from the Keyser station to Fayetteville, NC would seem unbearably long but I don’t mind. I love trains. I have loved them as long as I can remember and since my father works as a yard master for the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, we receive free passes to ride anywhere we want.

As the beautiful royal blue and gold train pulls into the station at last I grab my new red hat so the gush of freezing wind from the train passing by doesn’t blow it from my head. The pom-pom on top of the hat is as big as my head and I must look quite ridiculous but I love this hat. It had been a gift from my grandmother and I squealed with delight when I opened yesterday afternoon when my family went to visit my grandparents for Christmas dinner.
My father, who had come out from his office in the old red brick station just before the train arrived to say goodbye and help us aboard, teases me, “I’m surprised you didn’t topple over from the weight of that big red ball on your head.” Dad wasn’t coming with us, but would be joining us after his work week was over.

"Daddy, I wish you were coming with us.” I whine.

“Quit being such a baby.” My nine year old brother, Mark says as he grabs my beloved red hat from my head and threatens to throw it under the train.

“Mark” Dad snaps. “You be nice to your little sister. I’d better not hear that you have been picking on her the whole trip. Now give her back her hat.”

Mark gives me back my hat and as I take it from him I stick my tongue out at him and scrunch up my nose. Dad just chuckles and then reaches in his coat pocket and produces two brown bags filled with candy and snacks for the trip. This has become a tradition with our family for long train trips.

I wait on the platform with the family taking in the beloved sounds and smells of the train and the yard. The hissing sound that the engine makes when it is idling is like music to me. Even the smell of the burning engine oil mingling with the smell of the creosote soaked cross ties is dear to me.

Soon the conductor yells, “All Aboard!”

Mark scrambles up the steps onto the platform at the back of the sleeper car and Dad hands him the carryon bag with our toys, books, coloring books and crayons inside. Dad me kisses me goodbye and then lifts me up into our car pretending that I am too heavy for him to lift. He and Mom embrace and kiss each other goodbye. I step to the side of the platform to make room for Mom to climb up the steps.

I wave to Dad and yell, “I love you Daddy, see you this weekend.”

“I love you too, Bugs. I’ll see you this weekend. Be a good girl for Mommy and have fun on the train.” Dad yells back.

“Don’t call me Bugs!” I yell back before Mom steers me toward to the door of the car.

Dad always calls me Bugs because he says I look like Bugs Bunny and I pretend not to like it but secretly I feel special because I am the only one he has given a pet name.

Mom slides the door to the car open and I follow her into the train to find our sleeping berth and seats. As the train starts to pull away from the station I run to the nearest window to find Dad in the crowd of people still standing on the platform. I wave and blow kisses to him as he disappears from site. As the train rounds the first bend, the station and Dad are gone.

The passenger trains in the 60’s were very grand and the train employees seemed like family. Actually sometimes they were family since most of my uncles and my grandfather work on the B&O as well as my dad. We are always treated like royalty. For long trips we always secure sleeping berths and seats in one of the First Class Club cars which are almost as comfortable as our living room at home.

The cars seem very regal to me with their wood paneled walls and seats along the windows upholstered in blue. They look very much like a sofa and even have end tables that match the wood paneling with little lamps on them. These sofa seats fill most of the gigantic club car but one end is filled with banks of four seats, two on either side facing each other with a table in between. Mom usually requests these seats because having the table is a plus as my brother and I can play games or color pretty comfortably. The cars are so comfortable you never really even mind the constant rocking back and forth. In fact, I love the rocking motion and the click clack of the trucks (that’s what train wheels are called) on the tracks.

The best part of riding on the train is walking from car to car. What an adventure it is to walk across the platform between the cars as it shifts and moves back and forth under your feet.

On this trip since it is just the three of us, I am outraged to find a perfect stranger seated in one of the window seats when we finally make our way to the club car after putting our belongings in the berth. My brother pushes me out of his way almost knocking me down and scrambles into the opposite window seat facing the stranger.

“I want the window seat”, I yell.

“Shh!” Mom says. “Your brother got here first and you two can take turns sitting there.”

I decide that now is the perfect time for one of my classic temper tantrums. I fall to floor yelling, “It’s not fair, why does he always get his way and why do we have to sit with someone we don’t know anyway. I said I want the window seat!!!! Mommy, make him move. Make him move.”
I never take my eyes off the gentleman who has the nerve to be sitting in my seat. Mom apologized to the gentleman and tried to get me to calm down.

“I am so sorry.” She says to the gentleman trying to smile through her embarrassment. “She is a bit spoiled when it comes to riding on the train. I think she thinks she owns them.”

Moms face is turning as red as the hat I that I am still wearing because everyone is watching the spoiled brat having a tantrum, but I don’t care. I want my way and I don’t care how I get it.

Lucky for us the gentleman is very kind, he says “it is perfectly understandable why the young lady would want the window and as I’ve traveled this route many times, I’ll be happy to give the window to her.”

He moves over to the aisle seat and I awkwardly take the window seat smiling from ear to ear like the old Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. I begin the watch the snow covered landscape souring by. The fields are like a patchwork quilt with the fences as the stitching and the fields between the fences the patches.

“Thank you so much for your kindness.” Mom says to him as she takes the seat opposite of him.

“You know when I your age, I had to travel all the way from Billings, Mt to Washington, DC on the train.” The gentleman says to me and Mark. “The trains were still powered by steam back in those days and they left a trail of black suit and smoke behind them. They traveled much slower than the fancy diesel engines we have now.” The gentleman’s voice trailed off as if he were lost in his memories.

I turned to him and asked, “Where’s Billings, Moun--taina?”

“Montana.” He said with a smile. “Montana is state out west where lot’s of cowboys live.”

“Ooooh!, Are there lots of Indians too?” I ask, anxious now to hear more.

“Oh yes” he explained. “But most of them live on reservations now. A hundred years ago they used to live all over the land and there were many great battles between the cowboys and Indians.”

“Just like in the John Wayne movies Daddy always watches. I like the Indians best. They have the prettiest horses.” I say.

“I agree.” The gentleman says. “When my mother and I were traveling across the country on the train, we saw some buffalo and I liked to imagine the Indians hunting the buffalo.”

“Where was your daddy?” I ask.

“Suzy, don’t be so nosy!” mom said.

“It’s ok. I don’t mind.” He told Mom. “My father had been injured in the First World War and was in an army hospital in Washington. We were on our way to go be with him while he recovered.”

Mark has decided to join the conversation. “We’re studying World War I in school. I like history. It’s my favorite class.”

“I like history too.” The gentleman said.

“What’s your name?” I ask finally deciding I liked him enough to be on a first name basis with him.

“My name is Mr. Mueller but you can call me John.” He answered.

“Hi, John, I’m Rhonda but everyone in my family calls me Suzy, except Daddy. He calls me Bugs.” I say puffing myself up proudly. “That’s my brother Mark and my mom’s name is Virginia.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” He says politely bowing his head slightly.

“Can you tell us more stories please?” I ask.

“I think it’s time for lunch. Would you like to join us in the dining car for a bite, Mr. Mueller?” Mom asks

“I would love to and please call me John.” John replies.

“Great”, Mark said. “Maybe you can tell me more about the war your dad fought in. Did you fight in a war too?”

“Or you can tell us more about the cowboys and Indians in Mon—toun--, Montana. And about the long train trip you took to Washington.”

“Kids, can you let Mr. Muel—, I mean John, have a moment’s peace.” Mom interjected as she smiles at John.

We spend the rest of that day with Mr. Mueller. He tells us many more wonderful stories about Montana and the places he has visited and even the war he fought in.
We finally retire to our sleeping berth and I am exhausted. I fall asleep to the trains lullaby. “ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk”.

Its morning and I am sad to discover that John has already gotten off the train sometime during the night. I will miss him.

We finally arrive in Fayetteville and I am so happy to see my older sister and excited for her to show us her new home. All too soon it will be time to board the train again for the return trip to Keyser.

As my mind snaps back to the present, I smile at the memory and think to myself, “I really do need to plan a family train vacation very soon.”

Lenora's Ghost

This is another story I wrote for my writing class. This one is also very very loosely based on a story my grandmother used to tell us about when she was a kid growing up as an undertaker’s daughter. I have no idea what the house they lived in was like so I greatly embellished the details but the idea is based on the real story. This photo is what I based my description of the house on. Isn’t it beautiful? I want to live in it.

It's May 10, 1915 and today is my ninth birthday. My mother is letting me have my first birthday party and I hope the girls I’ve invited will come. My family just moved to Martinsburg six months ago and it has been difficult making friends. When your father is an undertaker and you live above the funeral parlor where your father works, kids don’t really want to spend a lot time in your house. I can’t blame them.

My father bought the business from the family who had owned it for almost 30 years. The house, built in 1882 is, as Mother explained, called a Queen Anne style house. To me it looks like a gigantic gingerbread house painted gray. The window trim, balusters and the ornate trim along the roof and front porch are painted white and a deep blood red. The front steps lead directly up to the front door where this is a small covered stoop. There is a veranda accessible only from the main parlor where mourners can sit and rest when the weather is warm. There is also a large bay window on the side of the house next to the veranda. There is a four story tower that rises above the front door with a widow’s walk on top but Mother has never let me go up to the fourth floor or up on the widow’s walk. I imagine the view must be amazing from up there. I’m not sure why it’s called a widow’s walk but it is kind of funny to have something called a widow’s walk on a funeral parlor. I must say, it is one of the nicest houses in town and looks very regal. If only it wasn’t a funeral parlor.

I didn’t sleep well last night and woke up very early. It must be because I am so nervous about the party today. Even though it is so early the town is coming to life. Sitting on my bed looking out the window, I can see a few of the shop owners preparing their shops down the street for the day’s business even though the sun isn’t yet fully over the horizon. Mr. Clancy is placing large baskets of bright red and yellow apples, oranges and even some exotic looking pineapples out on the front stoop in hopes of luring customers into the King Street Emporium. Across the street from the Emporium, Mrs. McAllister is sweeping the dirt from the floor of her dress shop out the front door, onto the sidewalk and then out into the street. She calls out a greeting to Mr. Clancy. I can’t hear what she is saying but I can see her smile and wave. From the other direction I can hear the steady clip clop of horse’s hooves on the brick pavement and turn to see Mr. Burke’s ice wagon being pulled by a lovely grey Percheron making their way into town. I see Mr. Rockwell carefully maneuvering his milk wagon around the ruts in the street so as not spill any of the bottles of fresh milk his 10 cows gave him this morning. He has two majestic Clydesdales pulling his wagon.

The sun is finally up now and my room is filled with a heavenly glow. I decide it’s time to get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.

“Mother, since it’s my birthday and it’s so nice outside, can eat my breakfast on the veranda? There is no one in the parlor so it wouldn’t be disrespectful to anyone.” I ask.

“I don’t see why you can’t eat your birthday breakfast outside on such a warm day. I sure your father won’t object. Why don’t you go ask him if he would like to join you on the veranda and have a cup of coffee? I’ll bring it out to you as soon as it is ready.” She says smiling. “But remember you still have chores to do even if it is your birthday.” She adds.

Since Mother seems to be in an agreeable mood I decide to ask another question. “Can I explore the tower later? I’ve never been up there and I promise I’ll be careful.” I ask tentatively.

“Perhaps if your older brother agrees to go with you.” She replies.

“Mother, I’m nine years old now. I don’t need George to go with me.” I complain.

“You are right. Maybe I will even have you start going up there a couple times a week and keep the room tidy and dusted just in case we get company that needs to sleep there.” She said.

“Thanks Mother!” I exclaim as I leave the room to go out on the veranda. I am excited about the idea of finally getting to go up to the tower room but I really didn’t want another chore in the bargain.

It’s a glorious day and I’m glad I asked to have breakfast on the veranda. Along the fence by the sidewalk there is a sea of yellow because the forsythia bushes are in full bloom. The lilacs bushes along the veranda fill the air with their sweet scent and I close my eyes and take it in. A pair of cardinals in the big oak tree is busy talking to each other. As I listen to their conversation I decide it sounds as if they are calling, “Vir-gin-ia, Vir-gin-ia”.

Father comes through the door and sits on the swing. I turn from the spot where I had been standing taking in the sights and smells of our home to greet him.

“Happy Birthday, Lenora.” He says happily. “Are you excited about your party this afternoon?”

“Oh yes.” I reply. “I just hope everyone will come and not be afraid of the dead people in the basement.”

Father worked on the bodies in the basement before bringing them up to the parlor for viewings. I never go down there!

“Well, there aren’t any dead people in the basement at the moment. So I don’t think it should be a problem.” He replies.

“You know that and I know that but they don’t know that!” I say “Everyone is always teasing me about having dead people in the basement of my house.”

“It will be a lovely party I’m sure.” Father says. “Here comes your mother with breakfast and when we are finished you can get to your chores and then get ready for the party.”

After breakfast I finish my chores in record time. “Mother, do want me to go clean up the tower room now?” I ask.

“Yes go ahead but don’t take too long. “she says.

I run up stairs two at a time and almost trip on the hem of my dress on the way up. When I get to the top of the stairs I pause. Something has always seemed kind of mysterious about this room. The previous owner moved out and left the bedroom fully furnished.

I am surprised when I open the door to find that it looks as if someone had been lying on the bed. I am pretty sure no one ever comes up here. “I must remember to ask mother about the bed when I go back downstairs.” I say to myself.

As soon as I am finished dusting the furniture and straightening up the bed I leave the room, closing the door behind me. I sprint up the steps to the widow’s walk and step out into the bright sun. You can see the whole town from here. I can see the roofs of most of the buildings on King Street and the tall steeples of the Methodist and Catholic churches as well as the roof of the school house which is next to the Presbyterian Church on Winchester Avenue. In the distance I can even see the railroad yards and I think about all the travelers passing through our small town on their way to someplace great like New York or Chicago.

As I head back down the stairs, I pause outside the tower room thinking about the messed up bed. “That really is very strange.” I think again.

I find Mother in the kitchen and I ask her about the tower room.

“George has probably been sneaking up there to read or something.” She explains.

George, who just walked through the back door and heard the conversation says, “I’ve only been up in the drab old room twice; just to close the windows. I’ve never even sat on the bed.”

“Well, that is curious then.” Mother shrugs with a puzzled look on her face. “You should go get ready for the party. Everything is set up in the yard and the guests should be arriving soon.”

The party is long over and everyone has gone home. Mother calls me in from the stable for dinner and then it’s off to bed. I lie in bed thinking of what a wonderful day it has been. Everyone I invited came to my party and we had a grand time. My thoughts wonder back to the tower room and I wonder why the bed was mussed up like someone had been lying on it. I decide to make it a point to go back up there tomorrow morning and check on it first thing.

First thing next morning, I sneak out of my room and up the stairs to the tower room careful not to let the steps creak on the way. I stand outside the room for a few minutes breathing hard from nerves before opening the door. I almost scream as I notice that again the bed looks as if someone has been lying on it. There is a perfect indentation on the pillow where a head might have lain and the covers are slightly askew. I decide that George is playing a trick on me and so I am not going to say anything to him or to Mother about this. I simply go to the bed, straighten it back up and leave the room.

It’s been three weeks since my birthday and the first time I went into the tower room. I go up there now every morning and straighten the bed and every morning it is mussed up in the exact same way. I know longer think George is playing a trick on me but rather I think one of the dead people decided a long time ago that they liked the house too and didn’t want to leave. I’m sure the previous owner knew this and that’s why he left the room as it is. I think I will keep this from all my new friends. They will never come over to play with me if they know there is a ghost living in our tower.

Henry

This is a short story I wrote for my writing class. It is loosely based on an actual Christmas from my childhood although the scene has been slightly enhanced.

The little girl’s joy can only be described as simple and complete. Her long chocolate brown hair is braided into two pig tails. She is wearing bright red pajamas with candy canes on the front. On her feet is a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. Around her neck is a blue scarf the color of the sky on a summer day. The scarf was a gift she just opened and discarded the pretty wrapping paper and bow in a pile in by her side. She sits next a mountain of vibrantly wrapped presents in green, red and gold all decorated with matching ribbons and bows under a brightly lit Christmas tree.

The lights from the tree reflect off of the antique painted glass ornaments and send chards of light all around the room. The fire in the fireplace adds to the warm glow and joyful feeling in the room. The pungent pine fragrance from the Christmas tree and the smell of cinnamon rolls baking in the oven wafts through the air while the sound of Christmas carols softly fills the room and competes with the static scratching sound of the needle on the phonograph, tearing paper, laughter and squeals of delight.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la.”

The little girl starts to sing along as she bobs her head from side to side “Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la la la la la”.

Her older brother is sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the Christmas trees frantically opening his presents as fast as he can. There is a flurry of flying paper and bows around him and a pile of paper fragments, broken ribbon and discarded bows littering the floor all around him. His pajama top has been exchanged for a Superman hooded sweatshirt and his slippers have been thrown across the room to be replaced with new Converse Chuck Taylor high tops; bright red of course.

Her mother and father sit side by side on the old brown sofa, holding hands, sipping coffee and watching their children enjoy Christmas morning as only children can. A shiny gold watch gleams in the light on her father’s wrist and around her mother’s neck is a string of white freshwater pearls.


On her lap sits a big fluffy yellow dog. Henry, as the embroidered patch on his chest proclaims. His golden yellow fur is as soft as a new born kitten and every once in a while she stops opening presents long enough to give the dog another squeeze or rub his soft black floppy ears against her cheek. The dog looks content sitting on her lap with his fire engine red tongue sticking out as if he is teasing you. His big fat belly is accentuated by a black fuzzy belly button and his arms and legs flop around making him perfect for cuddling.


As she pauses to squeeze him again she exclaims, “I just knew Santa wouldn’t forget to bring Henry to me!”

Her father looks at her mother and smiles wearily. He is happy to let her keep thinking that it was all Santa even though he spent the better part of Christmas Eve driving 200 miles round trip to Martinsburg to get Henry from her Aunt who managed to find him in a department store that got a last minute shipment on the 23rd. Henry was very hard to find this year. He would do anything to make sure that his little girl has the best Christmas ever and he knows how disappointed she would have been if Henry hadn’t been under the tree this morning.

“I’m glad Santa brought Henry too. You love Henry very much don’t you?”

“Henry is the best dog I’ve ever had and this is the best Christmas ever.” With that she jumped up and still carrying Henry in her arms, she leapt onto the couch and hugged both her parents. “I’m hungry. Can we have breakfast now?”