It was unusual for my sister and me to find ourselves parked along the railroad tracks recently.  So suggestive of days lived so long ago.  Our father was a train enthusiast; no he was a train nut.  We have been watching trains our whole lives and to this day the sound of the whistle stops us and brings us back to sitting three across in the front seat alongside the siding.

One of my fondest memories is playing in the park in Weehawken that overlooks the railroad yard. Back and forth on the swings, the wrought iron fence, surveying the long drop down to where the trains came in and out.  Hearing the wheels clack along the rails, watching for the signals to change, and the whistle…love the whistle.  When I lived on Oaktree Road and was unable to sleep the sound of the freight train going through early in the morning gave me comfort.

How many engines pulling the train was a good indicator of how long you’d be sitting at the crossing, the engineer on the caboose, back when there was a caboose, waving to us, knowing what freight movers the boxcars belong to and then watching the train pull all the way out of sight.

Toward the end of his life one of the small pleasures my father had was taking a ride.  Inevitably we would wind up along a railroad track or stopped for a train.  You could see the kid in him light up and the wanderlust move across his face.  I’m pretty sure my sister and I have inherited some of the kid light from him as we rolled down the windows and beeped the horn to hear the echo under the old trestle as we left to go home.

Happy Father’s Day Thomas, we miss you every day.