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Catching Trains

I took the magazine from his large hand and smiled. He smiled back. I think he could see me smiling at him, although his vision had been damaged by disease.

“Would you like to read this one to me?” he asked.

I looked down at the open page. There was a picture of a steam locomotive and some text underneath.

“Yeah, I would, Uncle Phil. That looks like a good one.”

I was so happy. I was going to read to someone instead of someone reading to me.

Technically, Uncle Phil wasn’t my uncle. It’s that way with people who are almost closer than blood, though. You refer to them as if they are related. They might as well be.

Uncle Phil and Aunt Minerva had a house next to us during the languid, humid summers along the Delaware River. Uncle Phil had diabetes, and Aunt Minerva had bad nerves, as she called it, because of his diabetes. I sat with him at the little living room table and read to him from his train magazines. I was going to go into third grade in the fall and could read most, if not all, of the words. I grinned with pride as he told me I was an excellent reader. He always told me I was an excellent reader.

I think of Uncle Phil when I see a train or even a picture of a train. He immediately comes to mind when I get a lovely invitation to ride in the cab of an old steam locomotive. The engineer has read a column I wrote about living near trains.

When I arrive at the station to take my ride, I know Uncle Phil could have told me all about this train. When I take my seat in the cab and look in awe at the giant expanse of gauges and pipes in front of me, I know Uncle Phil would have called it amazing. He would have been right.

I think of a day that Uncle Phil took my two older brothers and me for a train ride. It was a small train doing a local trip. We were excited to be on the train itself and glad to be with him. We usually only saw him during the summer.

It was a cold day. Raw with a slate-colored sky. That was just the weather, though. It didn’t matter.

We did the trip up and then had to wait a bit to do the trip back. We were told that there was a pot belly stove in the station and that we could warm up in front of it for a few minutes. Uncle Phil stayed on the train to chat with the engineer.

The stove’s belly was blazing. We hunched around it. I flexed my fingers and rubbed my arms. I even jumped up and down a little to get the blood flowing to my feet again.

“Oooooo, this is so nice!” I sighed.

It was nice. It was nice until we heard the train engine huffing. We were caught up in the warmth and distracted by the fact that we were able to feel our toes again. In a horrifying instant, we knew.

We missed the train.

“C’mon!” my oldest brother said.

“Wha-?” I asked, my eyes already welling.

“We gotta go after it!”

So, we ran down the tracks like lunatics. “Hey! Hey! Stop the traaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiin!” we cried.

It didn’t stop, but it did slow down. I was lifted into a man’s arms. My brothers jumped on after.

Later, Uncle Phil told us that he heard someone tell the conductor, “Hey, there’s three kids chasing after the train!”

Uncle Phil replied, “Well, I’m missing three kids!”

It was a grand adventure, and for days, I rehashed the whole thing for anybody who would listen. “The train was so cool! And then, oh man! It left without us! And then we had to run after it! Man, did we have to run!”

I don’t miss the train this time around. Instead, I have a nice, peaceful ride to the destination and back. I keep mostly silent because I don’t want to interrupt the engineer or the fireman shoveling coal into the firebox. I’m also deep in thought about how remarkable the train is, how beautiful the scenery is, and how much Uncle Phil would enjoy it all. In that way, he’s here, too. And he can see for miles and miles.

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.