"Brmmm. Clack. Clack. Brmmm. Clack. Clack. Psss!"
The train continues forward. Over the horizon I can see the emerging snow-capped peaks to the north of Trinidad, CO. The view is heaven. Rolling amber-colored hills dominate the view closest to my window. The color is stunning. For a few seconds I allow my imagination to take over and I picture those hills as one never-ending carpet of gold. I want to run through them, roll on them, and soak in their warm, dusty glory.
Closer to town now, the train slows its speed. The once distant mountains are now looming over Trinidad like a bejeweled crown. "Up there, that's where I want to be right now," I tell myself. The coziness of my reclined seat gives me the false impression that standing on those peaks will be as relaxing as my current position. Reality kicks in and tells me its rather cold and windy up there. "I know," I begrudgingly admit, "but I want to anyways. It's God's country up there."
Two short whistles signal our stop in Trinidad. Taking a break from the landscape, I turn my eyes to the old brick buildings in town. I think to myself how nostalgic this place is. Warehouses, storefronts, and at least one beautiful old church remind me that life in the American West was much different a few generations ago. Towns were smaller, buildings more beautiful, and everything happened at a slower pace. Of course, these are my own romantic visions of the past, but something tells me that's how it was. Life was simpler.
Passengers leave the train and new ones replace them. For a few minutes the conductor verifies the destinations of the new arrivals. "Kingman...San Bernadino...Los Angeles," he states, "there are plenty of seats upstairs to your right." The new faces look tired and eager to find a relaxing seat by the window to settle into. For them, their journey is just beginning, but for me, it is getting closer to ending.
I wonder how many other people (if any) on the train are counting the hours until their departure with sadness. My little brother, Luke, loves trains. Sometimes, he gets to visit the Union Station in Kansas City and see all the different locomotives in action. His departure from that place is never without resistance. I am beginning to think I will feel the same way once the train pulls into the station in Gallup, NM. I don't want to leave the world I have created for myself on this train. So peaceful, so un-interrupted, so not real. I don't want to return to the world outside--to reality. Work, school, church assignments, family to take care of, bills to pay, problems to solve, and emotions to balance...I don't think I have completely taken in Uncle Henry's death.
"Brmmm. Clack. Clack. Brmmm. Clack. Clack. Psss!"
The train moves forward. It always does. The scenery changes as the train slowly gains speed. The mountains are becoming distant again. Soon they disappear altogether as the train climbs up through the Raton Pass. Two steep hills border each side of the rails. Their rocky surfaces are covered with half-dead bushes which are surrounded by slushy mounds of snow--the only remaining evidence of the blizzard two days ago.
Water trickling down the hill catches my eye and I follow its path to the site of a seasonal brook that runs parallel to the rails. I scoot to the window and peer down to get a closer look. It is a small but steady stream of water. Although it is clear enough that I can see the ground below, the water emits a greenish-grey color that contrasts dramatically with the reddish-brown dirt of its banks. I relish the aesthetics of the moment. "The perfect color combinations are always found in nature," are the words I recall from a conversation I had with Aunt Minae years ago about beauty and color. The moment also makes me think of the saying that, "God makes no mistakes." Some people may think natural beauty is only found on rolling green hills or tropical islands. I think otherwise. For me, beauty is in all of God's creations--great or small, green or brown, alive or dead. It is all wonderful.
An hour after leaving Trinidad, we arrive in Raton, NM. The feeling here is still nostalgic, but in a different sense. Whereas in the other town, the old buildings were well kept, it seems that neglect is the norm here. I zoom-in my gaze to see cracks in the brick walls, fading paint, and plywood instead of glass in several windows. Again, I am reminded that some people may only find beauty in the newness of things, but I try to have a more tolerant eye. "Ugly beautiful" is my term for these buildings. "Ugly" because they are imperfect, but "beautiful" because they carry the stories of people's lives.
After coming to a complete stop, the conductor announces that passengers will have a few minutes to leave the train and take a break at the station. He mentions the opportunity to stretch one's legs, soak in some sun, and take a smoke. The first two options sound enticing, and I soon join the crowd outside. The sunshine feels good, no, great. My two-week stay in Missouri has made me miss the dry warmth of the Southwest, and the arid air reminds me that I am almost home, Arizona that is.
I take a few seconds to survey my surroundings. The old buildings look even more neglected upon closer inspection. The scene is too good for my imagination to pass up. I picture myself as a Nancy Drew-type detective just arrived in a semi-ghost town to solve a mysterious murder. My retro white trench coat (newly acquired from Mom's thrift store collection) makes me feel the part all the more. For a split-second, I consciously allow my vanity to take over and I pretend that my current appearance is emitting all the sophistication and class of Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn, or my favorite, Ingrid Bergman in her role as Ilsa Lund in
Casablanca. This vain daydream uplifts my spirits and propels me to explore the area with a new sense of purpose.
Several minutes pass and the now familiar sound of the two short whistles are made. I know that I must get back on the train. As I make my way to the door, I allow myself the guilty pleasure of inspecting my fellow passengers. One young kid catches my attention. His outward appearance hints that he is a social rebel on the move--dreadlocks, facial piercings, and a large pack stuffed to the max with "on the road" essentials. As the crowd moves forward, we arrive at the door at the same time. He motions for me to proceed first, but I politely refuse as I am conscious of the fact that he is carrying a heavy load. I then urge him forward, and he accepts the gesture with a simple "Thank you" and a friendly smile. I smile in return, happy to know that there is still some goodness in today's youth--especially those who do not fit the conventional appearance of it. "Yes, ugly beautiful," I think to myself, "real gems are found in those things (and people) that are traditionally caste aside as imperfect and ugly." I head upstairs content with the thought that I have learned at least one valuable lesson for the day.
--A
"Shann-an-agan"
