Sometimes all you have to do is sit on a bench in Fort Edward, New York and wait.
You might think you’re simply waiting for the Amtrak train to Montreal. But it turns out you’re waiting for the story. Or more correctly, the story is waiting for you. For you to show up and pay attention.
It comes to you in the form a late thirty-ish man. He is wearing a stained orange sweatshirt, blue Docker-type pants, a carbinger hooked from his belt slides to its mysterious end in his right pocket. He looks homeless with his straggly long brown hair, the untrimmed beard and the hair growing down the back of his neck.
His daughter might be around six or seven years old, wearing long shorts. Her legs are dirty. Her hair uncombed. We used to call girls like her tomboys. She has a fearless self-assurance. Sure of her place in the world.
Soon Grandpa pulls up on his orange scooter. He has thick yellowing glasses the same neglected colour as his toenails poking out from the ends of his cheap black and white slides. He has a large bendy flagpole on the back of his scooter. A torn flourescent-orange triangle hangs listless, almost covered by the large American flag attached above it.
The clouds thicken. The wind shimmers the silver maples, the ash, and other trees I can’t identify. Pigeons, robins, starlings compete with their steady songs. The town of Fort Edwards wears Sunday with a somnolent air. The only movements are the occasional cars and trucks bumping over the tracks.
The man’s voice breaks the wind-thick quiet. Â He asks me where I’m going. Where I’m from. “Oh. Vancouver…Canadian National. Canadian Pacific…” he continues to list all the trains that come in and out of Vancouver, the cities they pass through, their reliability, the connections.
I ask him if he likes train travel.
“No. I don’t ride the trains. I rode one once and got sick…I watch them.” The grandfather nods as his son speaks, as though this makes perfect sense. The girl continues to focus her gaze down the tracks.
And then he tells me more. “Last Sunday’s train was two hours late. We’re going home to call Mickey to check where the train has gone, to see if there’s engine trouble or what the story is.”
Three-generations of train watchers leave to do further research.
The wind continues to rattle and shake the trees. The town waits. So do I.
Recommendations:
To learn more about train watchers and also because it’s a great movie, I highly recommend The Station Agent
Beautifully told.
Thank you Sharon. I’m so glad you liked it. Funny what you dig up when you start poking through journals from June 2005!
Waiting for Eurail connections to Toledo, at 3:00AM in Pamplona, many years ago, I sat with other train watchers. The bulls had all finished their run. The festivities were winding down. There were more people at the station at that hour than the prior 24. Most stared into the darkness, ears recovering from the mad noises of the festival, eyes glazed over from the excessive wine. Train stations hold more sumptious moments than other travel hubs. Being Europe, the train was on time.
Larry, I like your reference to sumptious moments. I agree that train stations hold some of the best, though bus stations are pretty stellar in that regard too.
And of course, being Europe it was on time!
Funny, I never made a note of how late that Amtrak eventually was, but I think…a couple hours at least. I was too smitten with the entire experience.
As is everything in life, including travel, it always boils down to people. Great post.
Hello Yeity 🙂 Thanks for your observation. It’s true. Travel, just like life, boils down to one thing; manifested in a few different words…people/relationships/humanity/love.