This is a printer-friendly version of an article from Zip06.com.

Trainspotting

It’s 3 a.m. Of course, I’m awake. My mind’s worry jukebox begins to spin the latest and greatest hits. Then I hear a sound that’s instantly familiar and comforting. The low rumble of a distant train.

For much of my childhood, I lived alongside train tracks. Summers were spent on a thin plot of land between the Delaware River and a set of tracks on a hill behind our house. A long freighter would thunder by at all hours of the day and night. My bedroom was at the back of the house, which meant that the train would seem like it was coming right through the yard and into my bed. I was well aware, even at the age of eight, that the only thing separating me from the barreling train was a close and fragile-looking embankment of Jersey dirt. Could the bank hold the locomotive and all those cars until it made it past our little house every single time? Or would it collapse one night, sending the whole thing onto me before I had the chance to run? I always envisioned this happening at night when I was snug as a bug, and the roar of the train woke me from a dead sleep.

Something interesting happened every summer, though. And it didn’t take long. I would get used to the noise, and if I did semi-surface from deep sleep into a foggy wakefulness, I would realize it was only the train going by and slip back into unconsciousness.

When they discontinued the freight line, they tore up the tracks and designated the route as a bicycle path. I slept better. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad.

During the school year, we lived in a different house, and there was a different train. This one was called “the Dinky,” and I thought the name was terrible. It seemed too cutesy even though the train itself was tiny. It was a small commuter train designed to transport college students from Princeton Junction Station to Princeton University. When it ambled by, this train made a jangling sweet sound, completely non-threatening. It was adorable, but I still felt it deserved a better name.

My friends and I made up a game involving the little train. Since we loved to play outside, the rule was that when the Dinky went by, we couldn’t touch anything green. So, as it approached, we ran off the grass, discarded any green toys in our hands, and made a big showy production of the whole thing until the train was out of earshot. We’d hang from the wooden jungle gym (the part that was painted yellow, not the part that was painted green) or swing from tree branches, careful not to touch any leaves.

Epic games of Red Light, Green Light, or Ghosts in the Graveyard were halted. If our sandwiches had pickles on them, we swallowed quickly and didn’t take another bite until the train was well gone. I don’t remember what happened to the kid who touched green when the Dinky went by. We just simply never did it.

When I moved to northern Connecticut and then to Guilford up near Route 80, I no longer lived near any rail lines. I didn’t realize I missed the clamor of a train until one night, not long after I moved into my current home, the wind was blowing just right. I cocked my head like dogs do to get a better listen. A smile swept across my face. I could hear a train from my house!

It’s 3 a.m. The rhythmic clatter moves across the marsh and into my open window. Cah-clang, cah-clang, cah-clang. There’s the low keen of a whistle breaking through the night air like heat lightning. Who’s on that train? Where are they going at this late hour? With those questions gentle on my mind, I slide back into sleep as the sound of the train recedes.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.