HOW IT USED TO BE

My daughter’s family went for a train ride this weekend. A ‘Thomas the Train‘ train ride. Thomas the Train travels the world hooking up with with other trains to visit with fans. My granddaughter loved the ride and it brought back the memory of when I rode a train. This photo is of her looking out the window of a Thomas the Train made of leggo blocks. Yeah, leggos!

When I was very young, trains were still an important mode of transportation. Most small towns had a passenger rail service. Like most small towns the railroad tracks ran right through the center of it.

The factories in our town used trains to move their products. These tracks ran right into the industrial area and for many years the trains were more important than trucks. Of course that has all changed.

We also had the passenger rail service. And that’s the one I rode on.

I was 11 years old when the rail service was going to be discontinued in our community. That would have been 1962 before Amtrak was created in 1971. My mother was concerned that trains would disappear forever and I would never have the experience of a train ride. It’s odd to me now that she didn’t care if my brothers ever rode a train. She was determined to take care of this possible lack in my life’s experiences and to that end she devised a plan.

She called my neighbor’s daughter who had moved to a town about 15 miles away. Her idea was to put me on the train in my town and ride to the next one. I would get off at that station and my friend would be waiting for me.  It was  a great plan and she was going to see it executed no matter what.

I honestly didn’t care if I ever rode a train. But that didn’t matter. So on the last day of passenger rail service in my home town, my mother rousted me out of bed early in the morning (it was summer so I didn’t get to skip school). She made me wear a nice dress because I was going on a train. I packed an overnight bag (something I had never done) and we were off to the train station.

My ticket was purchased and then we waited. Of course we were early because Mom was so excited I was going to ride the very last train that would ever stop there for a passenger. I, on the other hand was scared to death.

I know I was 11 years old but the unknown is tough for a child and being alone was the real problem. Mom was to excited to see how unexcited I was. Talk about living vicariously through your child. When the conductor yelled “All aboard” Mom was ready. She put the ticket in my hand, gave me a kiss and pushed me toward the steps of the biggest thing I had ever been on. My mother must have been the only one in town concerned their child needed this experience because I was the only one going up those steps that morning. (No wonder they shut the service down)

I moved down the seats, found one close to a window and sat down. I peered out the window to find Mom waving her arm off. I was ready to cry but found myself waving back at her anyway. I felt like I had been put on the orphan train.

I’d love to say it was a wonderful ride. Truth is I only wanted it to be over. I wanted to see a friendly face at the end. I spent the 15 miles worrying instead of enjoying. But everything went according to the plan. I was met at the station and I spent the night at my friend’s house. The 15 mile ride home was in a car.

As fearful as I was at the time of my train ride, I have always been grateful to my mother for her foresight. Because of her, I was the last person to board the train in our town. And she was right, I have never been on one again.

Looking back 46 years, I think I actually saw the scenery as that train moved down those tracks for the last time. In fact, I’m pretty sure I enjoyed myself.

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The other morning my little granddaughter became acquainted with a box turtle. It was passing by and decided to stop on her patio and visit. Seeing a photo of it brought back memories of our youngest son and his turtles.

AJ was 6 years old when we arrived in Georgia. We bought an old fixer-upper (it may be compulsive or a form of self-torture). At any rate it was an old farm house and we managed to get 5.5 acres with it. It was about 3 miles from a small town in the North Georgia mountains. A great place to raise children with lots of space for them to roam.

We had cats, dogs and horses for a very brief time. And in no time at all our youngest child had an assortment of turtles.  He started out with one that he found somewhere in the yard. It was little and cute and fit nicely in a shoe box. He named it Jack. Jack stayed in that confined space for awhile and then he found another little turtle. That gave him the idea to create a space for both turtles outside in a more natural setting. He worked hard at getting a nice place for them to live in. It was under the old apple tree in the back yard with enough grass, dirt, and roots for his turtle buddies to hang out in. The problem was confining the little creatures. It wasn’t like they were looking for a place to rent. He’d put them in his turtle resort and the next day chances are one or both would be gone. Fortunately it’s true that turtles don’t travel very fast so he would round up his guests and start all over again. As you can imagine this became a frustrating way to have pet turtles. But he still enjoyed them and lots of little turtles came by to visit. One day he came up with what I think was a brilliant idea.

He decided that every turtle that came to visit he would name ‘Jack’.  And he wouldn’t try to confine them. He figured out you really couldn’t do that if you wanted them to live naturally. The first year we lived in that house the majority of the turtles seemed to be all very small box turtles. I don’t know if those turtles simply grew up or future little ones found another path but it was mostly bigger ones that came by to visit as the years passed.

Since each turtle that found it’s way to our place was given the same name, our son wanted a way to keep track of them. To help, his dad gave him a material that is used to mark metal in fabrication. AJ would number each Jack that passed through. Number one came by when he was just over 6 years old. There were well over 20 Jacks proudly carrying a number on their shells by the time AJ found other interests. Because he had marked them he realized that some of the same turtles come to visit him several times.

Every time I see one I wonder if it has a number on it and thanks to AJ I’ve come to call any box turtle Jack.

And now our granddaughter is entertaining her own turtle visitor. Who knows maybe this is just the beginning of a long friendship with the little critters.

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Yesterday my granddaughter and I had lunch together. I fixed the toasted cheese sandwiches and prepared the cantaloupe while my two and a half year old grandchild set the table. I’m not kidding! She did this task on her own. She put placemats out, placed a fork on them (which she got out of the drawer on her own), and finished up the job by putting a napkin beside the fork. I was quite impressed, and it reminded me of how helpful her own mother has always been around the house. Except for that one time she protested.

When our children were growing up, kindergarten was a half day affair. You either went to the morning session or the one after lunch. I still think it’s a better plan. That means a 5-year-old only spends half the day away from home. But I’m admittedly old fashioned when it comes to caring for children.

Our daughter was in the morning session and loved every minute of it. Her teacher was a wonderful woman who was old enough to be her grandmother. She was everything I wanted for our daughter’s first teacher. Kind, strict with a sense of fairness, and a handle on the fact that kids need to have fun.

The 4 hours of school were wisely planned each day. Some supervised play time to allow the children to interact with each other. There was the usual rote recitation of the alphabet and counting, and the favorite part for our little darling–story time.

The story was always the last thing of the morning so the children went home with what they just heard uppermost in their minds. Some times the story would teach a lesson about manners or morals and sometimes it was just a fun story. Our daughter always tried to get the most out of what was read to her.

Often she would share the story on our drive home but sometimes we never knew what she had just listened to. Then there were rare occasions when she would apply the story to her present circumstances. One particular day it was very easy for me to figure out what she had just heard.

Lunch always immediately followed our return from kindergarten. After lunch on the day I’m thinking of I asked my little girl to do what I had asked her many times before. But I was about to get a response that was entirely new. I said, “Honey, while I clean up the dishes I want you to go clean up your room and put your toys away, please.” She did not hesitate. She turned and walked to her room. In no time at all she was back in the kitchen. A very annoyed child was standing in front of me. Her little hands were on those little 5-year-old hips declaring, “Why do I have to clean my room? I feel just like Cinderella!”

I knew what story was read that morning.

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Earlier this evening my daughter and I went shopping. She was a bit flustered from getting herself and her daughter ready to go. She called it a wardrobe crisis and I knew just what she meant.

I have always enjoyed clothes. I was one of those little girls that wore a dress all the time, no matter what the activity or season.  Dressing nice was important to me as soon as I became cognizant of dressing. I think it might be genetic because my daughter at 9 months crawled to her room, took dirty clothes from her hamper and managed to pull them over her head. I figured she was letting me know she didn’t like what she was wearing. My granddaughter is just over 2 and has been seriously interested in clothes for a long time. She also likes to choose what she wears.

My mother also took great care to dress nice. She always made our clothes. That meant my wardrobe was one of a kind. When I did get a dress that mom didn’t make we called it a ’store-bought’ dress. I had very few of these.

When I was 7 years old my mother taught me to sew. By the time I was 11, I was the one making my clothes. In high school I had to wear a uniform. Talk about thwarting the fashion sensibilities. But in many ways the uniforms were a help because I would sew during the week and wear my creation to the Friday night dance. Every week it was a different outfit. I was comfortable with clothes. I knew what I liked. I knew what colors looked best on me and I had a very large wardrobe. Sewing enabled me to become a clothes horse.

Then I got married. Yep, I married a wardrobe wrecker. A wonderful fella who thinks he has fashion sense.

Not long after our wedding I was making a dress to wear to church. I had everything finished but the hem. Standing in front of the mirror I was deciding where to hem it when Herman came in. I was loving this little dress. It felt good on and looked good too. I stood in front of the mirror happy with my newest creation when he said, ” Is that the way it’s supposed to look? ” Now what did that mean? I said, “Yes, it’s really cute isn’t it?” He said, “Well, I guess it will be okay.” What exactly was he talking about? I said, “Don’t you like it?” His answer, “O yeah, it’s a really nice dress.” That was the first time I felt my clothes sense going off kilter.

I left the room, took the dress off and threw it in a box of fabric scraps. I never finished it. From that moment on I haven’t had the same sense of comfort with my clothes.

We discussed the whole issue shortly after. He apologized for not telling me how cute the dress was. But by then the seeds of doubt had started a garden in my mind. I had doubt flowers about my sense of fashion blooming everywhere. My shoes, my hairstyle, my make-up or lack thereof. I was a crippled clothes horse! I still loved clothes but had lost my ability to know what I liked or looked good in. And it took years to even diagnose what crippled me.

The problem was my desire to please my husband, to be a good wife and listen to his advice. In most things it’s been important to listen to him. Like when I don’t get enough salt on the potatoes or the tire needs more air. But when it comes to my clothes I wish I had never asked him the first time, “Honey, how do I look?”  He’s just not qualified to answer. It’s like asking a dentist if you need glasses or a mechanic to fix your plumbing. Their expertise is in another field altogether.

When did I discover this? This evening when my daughter who has a great sense of fashion said she tried on 5 different outfits because one by one her husband said they didn’t look good on her.

It only took 35+  years to realize Herman doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He wants to help. He doesn’t want to let me down by simply saying, “You know what I have no idea about this kind of thing.”  So instead he answers.

What was I thinking?

(Here’s the song “What Was I Thinkin’” by Dierks Bentley)

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