Out of t he Blue By Debora h Sa lomon

All Aboard

A t ick et t o r id e th e memor y train

By deBor a h sa l oMon I parked on Pennsylvania Avenue, gathered my stuff and walked toward The Pilot office for a staff meeting. I work mostly from home but enjoy seeing ever ybody, checking the grapevine at least once a week.

Just before opening the door, I heard the shr ill whistle, clang ing bell and thunderous approach of a train, not much more than 50 yards away.

Just like an old mov ie, the present fades away and I am, once again, a lit tle g irl waiting w ith her mother on the plat for m of the or ig ina l Pennsylvania Station in Manhat tan, ready to board T he Souther ner which would take us to my g randparents’ house in Greensboro. T he sensor y exper ience practica lly k nocked me over: sounds, smell, emotions a ll at once, as though a compar tment (the r ight word) in my brain had burst open, spilling for th contents, remark ably intact.

Because this is about brains, not trains.

Never theless . . . trains were par t of my childhood. I rode a sub way to school and traveled to Greensboro severa l times a year by rail. A f ter supper on war m nights, Granddaddy would wa lk me over to the track s para llel to L ee Street to watch the f reight trains r umble by. I waved at the eng ineer. He waved back.

But it wa s t he over n ig ht t r ips f rom Penn St at ion to G re ensb oro’s imp osing S out her n R a i lway Dep ot t hat are etche d ab ove t he eyebrows.

Before boarding, we would “g rab a bite” at a cof fee shop (a lways an egg sa lad sandw ich, for me) then proceed to the plat for m bathed in enough steam to hide a f ur tive Ing r id Berg man. T he conductor rea lly did shout “A ll aboard!” to hur r y passengers onto coach and P ullman (sleeper) cars. A n hour or so into the tr ip, near Philadelphia, por ters would commence “mak ing up” ber ths in upper and lower compar tments.

T he por ters! T hey were the essence of rail travel, posters for instit utiona l seg regation /racism. Most had white hair under their caps. A ll were k ind and deferentia l. Unlike rather ster n conductors, they smiled, made me feel safe. Watching them assemble upper and lower bunk s concea led by heav y canvas cur tains was like watching a child play Transfor mers. I can smell the ironed cot ton sheets, feel the scratchy wool blankets, see the pillows covered in str iped tick ing. T hen the P ullman car went dark.

I peeked out. How strange to see strangers padding up and dow n the aisle in robes and slippers.

Once under the covers (I got the w indow side) af ter my mother fell asleep, I squeezed a meta l gadget that unlocked the heav y shade and watched the landscape speed by.

Clicket y- clack, clicket y- clack . . . lullaby of the wheels.

We woke early, dressed (nobody traveled sloppy back then) and made our way to the dining car for break fast. Glor ious! Outrageously expensive orange juice, scrambled eggs, biscuits and jam ser ved by waiters wear ing white gloves, who ca lled me “Missy.”

Out the w indows, Virg inia and then Nor th Carolina looked so much g reener than New York. I saw cows g ra zing.

T he air felt war m and f resh as we disembarked. Granddaddy was waiting in his ’36 Dodge, which emit ted an odor that made me car sick. I can smell it, r ight this minute, and still feel wooz y.

T here’s so much more. W hen I was about 8 my mother sent me on a head, a lone. By then, the route required chang ing trains in Washing ton, at midnight. A lways an advent urous child, I was thr illed. My mother pinned a note on my jacket, instr ucted the conductor, gave the por ter a whole dollar to look af ter me, a lthough lit tle was required.

By then, I k new the ropes.

T his was soon af ter World War II; trains were filled w ith happy young soldiers headed home. T he ones in my car “adopted ” the lone lit tle g irl, taught me a card game, gave me Hershey bars. Unthink able, now, which makes the memor y even more precious.

But this is about the brain, r ight, not the train?

My last train r ide was in Sw it zerland, in 1996. Here, I lear ned the hard way that if depar t ure is scheduled for 10:32 that means 10:32, not 10:33. However, a few days before this memor y er uption, I spoke to a couple who still r ide A mtrak f rom Souther n Pines to Penn Station, for a lark. Sure, it takes 12 hours but no dr iv ing to R DU, park ing, weather delays, baggage issues, cramped seats, get ting a cab ($50) or bus to midtow n Manhat tan. You can wa lk around, maybe recline. I must have been r uminating on this when A mtrak blasted across Pennsylvania Avenue unlock ing a trainload of memor ies — audible, olfactor y, v isua l — which like ghosts at midnight on Ha lloween, must slither back into that compar tment in my f ronta l cor tex, forever. PS Deborah Sal om on is a w r it er for PineSt r aw an d T he Pi lot . Sh e m ay be re a ch e d at d ebsal om on@n c.r r.com.