At age seventy six, I yet recall sights, hear voices, and smell aromas of my first ride on the St. Paul and Milwaukee Hiawatha passenger train. It was coming toward us around a curve, smoke belching, steam hissing, whistle shrieking, huge steel wheels grinding, and sparks flying. I am frightened. I back away. "It breathes," I yell.
"It's not alive," says mother. "So, you need not worry."
We're on our way to visit her parents, my Grandma and Grampa Colacicco, in their Chicago upper flat.
"What's a flat?"
"It's upstairs."
"Why isn't it downstairs?"
"Don't ask so many questions. Some other family lives downstairs. You'll see."
I turn to watch a Railroad Express man in bib overalls, blue chambray shirt, patches at both elbows. He wears a black cap. His head is down, his shoulders hunched. Gnarly fingers behind him are latched on a wood T-handle. He pulls a wagon with steel-covered wood-spoke wheels. It rumbles but not nearly as loud as the train.
"Hi," I say to him. His head remains down. Maybe he doesn't hear. Should I address him again? No, I decide. Better not. He doesn't look happy.
"All aboard," calls out the dark haired, heavy set conductor dressed in black trousers, black suitcoat, white shirt, black tie. On his black cap with shiny black bill is a brass plate with red, black, and silver colors. He lifts me up to the first step. "There you go, young man." He heaves mother's suitcase to the floor of the train's car.
"To your left," he says.
Mother steers my shoulders. Entering the "car," I view a never ending aisle, with maroon covered seats on both sides, people nearly hiding their dreamy covers. I look up and think this railroad car is huge beyond belief. Its varnished, stained wood ceiling with a multitude of swirls is glossy beautiful.
Soldiers and sailors, some with hats tipped back, sport waves in front and grin. "You going to boot camp?" one asks me. The others laugh.
"He's going to Chicago. This is his first train ride," mother says.
They're not desperately loud, just loud. They laugh easily. Two soldiers rise from their seats and step into the aisle, permitting me and mother to take their place. "Thank you," says mother.
"Don't mention it," both answer at the same time.
I take the window seat, naturally, and stand on it in order to look out.
The engine chugs; the whistle blows; our car lurches ahead. I nearly fall. Mother catches me.
Some uniformed men start to sing, "A hundred bottles of beer on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer." Nearly every other uniformed man joins in. Not mother and me. "If one of them happens to fall, ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety nine bottles of—"
Some soldiers play cards. The losers bark and roar but do not curse. During this era, it is expected that all men show respect to women and children. I watch a bespectacled sailor in the seat across from us. He's immersed in a game of chess with a civilian. He tells his opponent, "No, I wasn't in Pearl when the Japs bombed it. I was in college. I joined a week later."
"Port Edwarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrds," announces the conductor. "Port Edwards, next stop."
Port Edwards is five miles from Wisconsin Rapids. "Are we there yet?"
"No," says mother. "Chicago's a long way off."
"How long?"
"Never mind. See those cows in that field over there?"
I go "mooooooo" in my deepest mezzo soprano.
Sometime after Port Edwards, mother offers me a salami and cheese sandwich, wrapped neatly in wax paper. I carefully open. I eat. Next, an Oreo cookie. After I finish that, I rest against mother's side and fall asleep.
"New Lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-don. Next stop, New London."
"We get off here," says mother.
"Are we there yet?"
"No."
"Then, why do we have to get off?"
"Because we're not going to Saint Paul," she explains.
"Saint Paul?"
"It's a city In Minnesota. We're going to Chicago, Illinois."
"Oh," I say as if I understand.
The conductor waits outside and below me. I descend some steps, holding on to a railing with both hands. The engine puffs and wheezes. Smiling, he lifts me off the bottom stair and gently lowers me to concrete. "Have a good trip, young man."
He helps Mother down. She puts suitcase on concrete and places me on top where I sit. Not for long. Two trains. The first one stops. It's on the other side of the tracks. The next train on our side literally blows by. It's so fast.
Finally, our train arrives. Its conductor does not smile. Besides being grumpy, he is not helpful. Mother lifts me to the bottom step. She struggles with the suitcase. She steers me to the right. This car is not like the other. The few military men remain hushed. They do not smile.
I don't recall Milwaukee. Perhaps I am asleep.
"Chicahhhhhhhh-go. Last stop, Chicago. Everyone out, Chicahhhhhhh-go."
"We're here," says mother as she stands, waiting for others to exit. "Charlie and Angie will be waiting for us."
"Who?"
"They're your aunt and uncle. Charlie's my oldest brother. Angie's his wife."
"I want to go home."
"It's not alive," says mother. "So, you need not worry."
We're on our way to visit her parents, my Grandma and Grampa Colacicco, in their Chicago upper flat.
"What's a flat?"
"It's upstairs."
"Why isn't it downstairs?"
"Don't ask so many questions. Some other family lives downstairs. You'll see."
I turn to watch a Railroad Express man in bib overalls, blue chambray shirt, patches at both elbows. He wears a black cap. His head is down, his shoulders hunched. Gnarly fingers behind him are latched on a wood T-handle. He pulls a wagon with steel-covered wood-spoke wheels. It rumbles but not nearly as loud as the train.
"Hi," I say to him. His head remains down. Maybe he doesn't hear. Should I address him again? No, I decide. Better not. He doesn't look happy.
"All aboard," calls out the dark haired, heavy set conductor dressed in black trousers, black suitcoat, white shirt, black tie. On his black cap with shiny black bill is a brass plate with red, black, and silver colors. He lifts me up to the first step. "There you go, young man." He heaves mother's suitcase to the floor of the train's car.
"To your left," he says.
Mother steers my shoulders. Entering the "car," I view a never ending aisle, with maroon covered seats on both sides, people nearly hiding their dreamy covers. I look up and think this railroad car is huge beyond belief. Its varnished, stained wood ceiling with a multitude of swirls is glossy beautiful.
Soldiers and sailors, some with hats tipped back, sport waves in front and grin. "You going to boot camp?" one asks me. The others laugh.
"He's going to Chicago. This is his first train ride," mother says.
They're not desperately loud, just loud. They laugh easily. Two soldiers rise from their seats and step into the aisle, permitting me and mother to take their place. "Thank you," says mother.
"Don't mention it," both answer at the same time.
I take the window seat, naturally, and stand on it in order to look out.
The engine chugs; the whistle blows; our car lurches ahead. I nearly fall. Mother catches me.
Some uniformed men start to sing, "A hundred bottles of beer on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer." Nearly every other uniformed man joins in. Not mother and me. "If one of them happens to fall, ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety nine bottles of—"
Some soldiers play cards. The losers bark and roar but do not curse. During this era, it is expected that all men show respect to women and children. I watch a bespectacled sailor in the seat across from us. He's immersed in a game of chess with a civilian. He tells his opponent, "No, I wasn't in Pearl when the Japs bombed it. I was in college. I joined a week later."
"Port Edwarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrds," announces the conductor. "Port Edwards, next stop."
Port Edwards is five miles from Wisconsin Rapids. "Are we there yet?"
"No," says mother. "Chicago's a long way off."
"How long?"
"Never mind. See those cows in that field over there?"
I go "mooooooo" in my deepest mezzo soprano.
Sometime after Port Edwards, mother offers me a salami and cheese sandwich, wrapped neatly in wax paper. I carefully open. I eat. Next, an Oreo cookie. After I finish that, I rest against mother's side and fall asleep.
"New Lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-don. Next stop, New London."
"We get off here," says mother.
"Are we there yet?"
"No."
"Then, why do we have to get off?"
"Because we're not going to Saint Paul," she explains.
"Saint Paul?"
"It's a city In Minnesota. We're going to Chicago, Illinois."
"Oh," I say as if I understand.
The conductor waits outside and below me. I descend some steps, holding on to a railing with both hands. The engine puffs and wheezes. Smiling, he lifts me off the bottom stair and gently lowers me to concrete. "Have a good trip, young man."
He helps Mother down. She puts suitcase on concrete and places me on top where I sit. Not for long. Two trains. The first one stops. It's on the other side of the tracks. The next train on our side literally blows by. It's so fast.
Finally, our train arrives. Its conductor does not smile. Besides being grumpy, he is not helpful. Mother lifts me to the bottom step. She struggles with the suitcase. She steers me to the right. This car is not like the other. The few military men remain hushed. They do not smile.
I don't recall Milwaukee. Perhaps I am asleep.
"Chicahhhhhhhh-go. Last stop, Chicago. Everyone out, Chicahhhhhhh-go."
"We're here," says mother as she stands, waiting for others to exit. "Charlie and Angie will be waiting for us."
"Who?"
"They're your aunt and uncle. Charlie's my oldest brother. Angie's his wife."
"I want to go home."
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