1377 Miles

 When Billie and I decided that we would celebrate our upcoming honeymoon in the magical city of New Orleans we embraced the romantic idea of riding the rails as our means of travelling there.  Beforehand, Billie often portrayed her earlier train ride to California quite vividly as passing through purple mountains majesty while  my daily hop, skip, and a jump to work roared through the dank and dirty tubes of the New York subway system, I had never really experienced travel by rail at all.  Back then, you might say, I was a mere tenderfoot.

But gradually after rifling through brochures and fliers on train travel I began to  understand that a rail trip is much more than just another mode of transportation.  Riding a train, I learned can be a mini vacation all by itself, complete with sightseeing. So I couldn't wait to start on this journey.

Our trek on tracks began at Pennsylvania Station, the main hub of an interconnected spider web of rails for some of the busiest commuter trains in the country.  Billie and I stood up on street level with Jack and Joanne who accompanied us with an armful of flowers to the station where they bid us a bon voyage.  After we finished our farewells,  my new bride and I wheeled our luggage onto an escalator which carried us to an underground mall of newspaper stands, souvenir stores, fast food outlets and tie shops,  that's right, tie shops, a variety of kiosks and to a spacious glass enclosed waiting area. A square white marble information booth bearing the bold blue and red "AMTRAK" logo was our immediate goal.  One of the five clerks on duty A young man wearing a white shirt and blue necktie under his similarly colored sleeveless pullover and red pill box cap smiled at me and said;  "Yes.  Where are we going today, sir?"

"I'm looking for the train that's scheduled to go to New Orleans." I said as I handed him my ticket.

He quickly scanned the two-part Amtrak form I produced and bent towards the silver microphone that rested on the counter before him and announced with some authority, "I need a "red cap" and wagon for the information desk, please."

The clerk handed my ticket back to me and told me to follow the gentleman with the long metal cart who was headed our way.  He said that all my luggage would be sent to the baggage car and hoped both Billie and I would have a wonderful trip to New Orleans and,  yes, of course he thanked us for choosing Amtrak.

Excitedly, our small entourage entered the mouth of a cavernous blue tiled hallway which displayed a digital destination and time schedule overhead.  I saw that it read "New York to New Orleans - On Time."  Once on the platform, we were escorted to a silvery blue rippled body train bearing the unmistakeably red, white and blue thick banner  belted around the waist of the cars, just below the windows.  We passed several coach cars that were half-filled with passengers busy reading and continued along the platform until the "red cap" Amtrak employee braked the cart filled with our luggage to a stop outside the train's baggage car.

"You're car number 108.  Just keep walking that way." He said pointing to the far end of the train.

After we boarded that car, a conductor in a finely tailored dark blue suit and a back pocket bulging with  train tickets directed us to our sleeping compartment, room number 3.  When he  finished his demonstration of each of the amenities in our tiny quarter he said,

"You will hear announcements for dining times and various train updates from these speakers," he touched a small metal grading beside the mirror and continued, "but if you need any further assistance, push this button below the mirror and someone will help.  Thank you both and enjoy your trip on Amtrak"  

When the sliding door shut, I turned to Billie and burst out with excitement, "This is GREAT!!"

I began examining every single gadget in the room - playing with buttons; opening doors; flicking the embedded clips used to hang coats; and of course flushing the toilet.

"Sit down and rest, Jim.  You have plenty of time to do that." She advised from one of the two facing window seats.

"Look!!" she pressed her index finger on the bay window that separated us from the platform outside, "we're moving!!"

It was then that I realized riding on a train felt like I was standing on a moving escalator while commuting on a subway car was akin to balancing oneself on a surf board.  

Our train, or the "Crescent" as I later discovered it was named,  slowly moved out of the darkened tunnel and into the bright morning air.  It rambled steadily passed the east side of the city alongside the busy Hudson river and began to pick up more speed as soon as it moved into the underground tunnel to New Jersey. 

Once we reached the outer ridges of the heavily populated areas of Newark, we veered toward the back roads and then beyond that.  Every so often I caught glimpses of empty green fields of grass through sporadic openings in the trees which walled each side of the train tracks.  I was awestruck by the natural beauty that buffeted the tracks.

"Hmmm. . .looks like Long Island to me."  I heard Billie critique.

Hours later, I entered room number 108 again with a gray cardboard cup holder stacked with a wrapped tuna fish sandwich, a bag of Wise potato chips, and a covered plastic cup of plain tea with a tiny pink envelope of Sweat n' Low on the side.  When I saw Billie was reading  I interrupted by asking, "Did I miss anything?"

She smiled when she saw that I was  bearing gifts and uttered, "Oooh, food.  Let me help."

"Holy Christmas!!  Didya' see that?" I blurted.  "I think that was an animal out there."

Apparently our train had increased speed and whizzed through an open farmland dotted with cows grazing and doing other stuff that cows do.  But as suddenly as the farmland appeared, it vanished when the train entered another opening in the bordering high growth.

Billie turned to the window and shrugged saying, "It still looks like Long Island, Jimmy."

Later when the pristine sky transformed into a melodramatic overcast we heard a male's voice crackle though the tiny speaker under the mirror,"Dinner will be served in the Dining car in twenty minutes."

"Guess we better leave so we can beat the crowd, huh?" I suggested. "I know where the dining car is.  I passed through it when I was getting the snacks before."

"I'm right behind you."

We walked along the narrow path that separated the smaller sleeper compartments like ours and saw that the car also had much larger rooms for families.  A similar car followed which was attached to the train's club car, used for lounging, smoking, games and sightseeing.  We walked among several passengers who were enjoying snacks and looking at the passing countryside then crossed over to the next car, the dining car.  

Seven wooden tables for four were on the right side of the car, and seven wooden tables for four were on the left.  Each of them bore an eight inch glass vase with a single stemmed carnation to add some needed warmth to the otherwise stark atmosphere of the car.

Two hours or about one hundred and fifty miles closer to New Orleans, I slid  the door to our sleeper compartment shut behind me and approached my biggest challenge, the task which I had been dreading since I boarded the train early that morning, that is, to find and open the top bunk.  It was obviously a small concern for the mechanically inclined but what lie in front of me appeared to be a significant undertaking with only a small chance of success.

When I couldn't find any directions or even the crudest of  graphic displays on how to use the top bunk, I calmly concluded that I would have to tackle the project that faced me alone.  The top bunk was spring-loaded onto two sets of rails that were embedded in the facing walls directly above the two passenger seats which itself converted into the lower bunk.  I figured it seemed a bit too easy to pull the top bunk down from -there had to be a catch.

Nevertheless I began by grabbing the red fiberglass handle that jutted from the top bunk on the ceiling and pulling with all of my weight until I felt the bed move.  It didn't budge.  Now since I had always prided myself with having better than average upper body strength for a person of my height I pulled the handle down once more.  This time I strained with such vigor my veins mushroomed out along my neck and the color of my face matched the crimson color of the handle.

I turned with disgust and prepared myself to tell Billie we were given a sleeper compartment with an upper bunk bed which was totally unusable, a real mellon.

Yet before I could open my mouth to express my rage with a flury of colorful expletives she pressed a clearly marked button that practically shouted "PRESS HERE TO LOWER TOP BED" then she kindly said to me, "Maybe, this would help?"

I turned with a start to see the upper bunk spring down on the rails to settle at eye level in front of me.

"Where di . . .di . . . did that button come from??" I stammered.  This time my face was red from embarrassment.

Riding in a top bunk of a sleeper car and peering out the nearby window as the train hurtled past the shadows of the moonlit  farmlands, streams, and countryside is certainly not an experience anyone can easily forget, nor should it be.  However, if you chose otherwise, you could simply slide the plush black curtain to cover the passing view and gently rock to sleep as occasional groans from the train's horn faded into the night. 

My eyes blinked open the following morning to see the shimmering  of sequinned-like cobalt blue water ripple as far as the eye could see.  I fumbled for one of the train brochures and traced on the map with my finger and announced to Billie who was already awake and reading, "Aha, we're crossing Lake Ponchartrain, the longest rail bridge in the world."

Eventually, I saw these same waters of the lake run through a quagmire of marshes, swamps and wetlands until the tracks guided us nearby one of New Orleans famed above ground cemeteries.

The train's horn blasted several times as it  slowly turned further inward allowing us a glimpse of the far-off skyline of downtown New Orleans. 

"Do you think I have time to get another tuna fish sandwich, Billie?" I asked.

"Sure.  Pick me up a tea and donut while you're at it, could ya'. . ." she smiled.

When Billie and I were finishing our food, I said, "You were right, travelling by train is the best way.  It's so comfortable, the tuna fish sandwiches are out of this world and I couldn't have asked for a better companion to travel with."

"Oh, that's so sweet.  I love you too," Billie responded.

"Just think, this has been our first 1377 miles travelling together as man and wife." I added.

"My gosh, you actually counted?  I only hope the rest of the many miles we travel don't all look like Long Island."

I've said it before and I'll say it again:
"What a gal."

The Corner Grocery Store

Many years ago my wife Billie and I once embarked upon a quest in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn in the hopes of finding a certain street corner that time had forgotten. That intersection was still fresh in my memory. How could I ever forget that four-floor red-bricked building topped by a teal green spire? And how could I overlook those finely chiseled glass blocks that separated the street from that building's basement below? The building was a magnificent edifice that adorned the edge of Eleventh Street, off Eighth Avenue, down the block from Prospect Park.

Jack, Mom, Me, & Dad

 

What made this memory so special—and so personal to me—was the thought of a fire- engine–red grocery store that graced this building on the street level.  The neighbors all knew it as Lande & Spaight grocers or L&S for short.  I simply referred to it as "dad's store."

My brother, Jack and I spent many memorable hours helping my dad there. To this day, we can pretty much tell you where anything was in that store. We can tell you about the large gray step  that led into a friendly and busy grocery store and that the closet-sized bathroom was located just past the frozen-food refrigerator, in the furthest reaches of the store. If you needed to know, we could tell you that the White Rock soda bottles stood like bowling pins on the wooden slatted floor across from that refrigerator. Potatoes, onions, carrots, and the like filled clean wooden bins at the front across from the checkout counter, where dad usually stood with a tiny pencil behind his right ear. The chores we did for Dad were simple ones, such as stocking the shelves, dusting the bottles of unrefrigerated sodas, or separating the empty returned bottles in the basement. One of our rewards was a free lunch at "Herman's Ice Cream Parlor," located just across the street on Eleventh Avenue. My menu never varied; my lunch was always the same—tuna on toast with lettuce and tomato and, from the fountain, a large glass of coke with crushed ice and two thin straws.

As time passed, that corner grocery store turned into a dry-cleaning establishment, then evolved into a bodega, then went back to being a grocery store. 

When Billie and I traveled there last, we saw a deli. Through all these changes, I realized at least one thing remained the same—that first dark gray step in the ever-changing corner store is still a doozy.

                  

     "The more things change, the more they remain the same."

—Alphonse Karr

The Gift of Tripe

I read in an article somewhere that stated the most powerful sense in the human body is the sense of smell.  The writer went on to explain that the sense of smell can trigger even the oldest memory.
But if I had my druthers, there is one particular smell I would prefer to never ever remember and that is the unnerving and pungent aroma of a boiling pig belly or as it's known in some circles, Tripe.

Tripe, I am told, is an acquired taste.  A person either loves its taste or hates it; there is no inbetween.

My father, unfortunately for the noses of my brother, myself and my surrounding neighbors, enjoyed the taste of Tripe.  The odor of Tripe smelled like raw sewage and let's be rational here, who wants to live in a sewer.

My mother, bless her soul, occassionally cooked Tripe for my dad.  I never could understand how my mom could stay in the same house, much less hovering over a stove while the unbearable fumes of boiling tripe coarsed through the air and into her nose.

Was it some unfathomable penance of some sort?  Or did she do it for another reason?

Well, years later when I fell head over heels in love with the gal I proudly call my wife, I finally understood why mom gladly cooked Tripe for my dad.

And if you are in love you should understand too.

Our Short-cut to School

When I was in high school I despised Geometry.  Never had any use for it.  I  quickly arrived at the conclusion that my geometry class had only one benefit and that was its allotment of forty-three minutes for uninterrupted sleep each day.  And I made good use of that time  using "Introduction to Geometry" as my pillow.

So it really never took the investigative skills of a Sherlock Holmes to uncover the reason why my final  Regents exam grade was not particularly stellar.  If my memory serves me correctly, I saw the words "SUMMER SCHOOL" stamped in red ink across the term "I DO SO DECLARE" that concluded the test.

During the first few weeks of my summer recess from school I began to prepare myself for dark days cramped in a overcrowded classroom surrounded by backboards chaulk-filled with circles, squares, and isosoles triangles- a living hell.  That is, until my aunt Edna told me to look on the bright side 'cause, ". . .at least you'll have company, you're cousin Steve will be going too."

I perked up, as much as anyone who has to attend summer school, can perk up and probably said with a distant tone, "wow, . . . cool." or something like that.

The school was called Archbishop Molloy high school or "Molloy" for short.  It was a three floor off-white building, the length of a football field with a thin copper colored cross attached to the silver pleated facade above the main entrance.

Malloy rested on the top of a hill in front of its vastly manicured lawn which spread to the sidewalk below alongside Queens boulevard.  

What I remember most of that summer wasn't so much the teachers who worked there, or the subjects that were taught there, no, my friends, what I can never forget was how my cousin Steve and I got there.  

Every morning of every day that summer, Steve and I did what everyone else did; we took a shortcut.  Only our shortcut wasn't as homogenous as the rest.  Our shortcut was more creative, more colorful, more adventurous.  Fact is, some people wait all their lives before they take this very same route- a trip though the winding paths of Maple Grove. . .  Cemetery, that is.

Now I forget who had the clever idea of shortening out trip to summer school by passing through a graveyard, but I do have one clue.  Remember who failed geometry and didn't pay attention to the "Pythagoreon theorem", ya know one that goes: the shortest distance between two points?  I had no idea what this Pythagoreon shortcut was all about.  So, I think it's fair to assume, the clever idea did not generate with me.

No matter who thought of the idea.  It was stellar nonetheless and a thrilling way for two young cousins to take back some summer fun that was marred by an interruption of school.

As I was explaining, each morning on the way to Malloy and every afternoon returning from, Steve and I stealthily meandered through the shaded curving pathways  that lead past mausoleums and age-worn gravestones of Maple Grove Cemetery.

You might say that this shortcut was our daily trip though the countyside.

And I thought geometry was useless . . . huh.

more Happy Birthday wishes to myself

I fell asleep when I was writing the last post.  So I never finished thanking people.  Boy, this starting to sound like a stupid acceptance speech.  Anyhow before I so rudely interrupted myself last night by konking out at the keyboad, let me thank my brother Jack who was with me when times felt as if they could not get worse.  I love you pal, and I always will.  Your entire family is special to me.

I don't want to leave out anybody who helped me celebrate my upcoming 61st year,and I know  I just might.  So I'm going to end right hear and simply say Thanks and love, Jim

Happy Birthday, Jim

I know it's thirteen days early but I want to express sincere wishes to myself for celebrating what will be my 61st birthday.  First I must thank certain people without whom none of my past happy birthdays would be happy at all. Thank you mom and dad for giving me life and thank you Billie, for sharing it with me