The tracks

 As a kid, I often found myself alone. My best friend had moved away, and the only other kids I knew were from school who lived a bus ride away from my house in the country. I didn't mind it so much; it was like I was the only kid on earth with too many adventures to recall.

One of my favorites was long walks on the railroad tracks, often from first light to sunset. I'd pack a couple of PBJs and a canteen slung over my shoulder, which was filled with Kool-Aid.

At the tender age of eleven, I took my longest walk, which I guessed to be about twenty miles. The tracks ran for hundreds of miles, cutting through farmlands and thousands of acres of forests. Every so often, they ran through a whistle-stop of a small town where I'd step off the tracks and pay a visit to old Mr. Lang, who ran a country store. He had a cooler outside where, for a quarter, you could get an ice-cold Coke or a push-up ice cream, and if he was in a good mood, he'd invite me to sit and tell me stories of his life. One hot afternoon, he told me the story of a hobo who passed through there twice a year, once in the Spring heading North and once in the fall heading South. A down-on-his-luck kind of guy, I said, but Mr Lang shook his head, saying No, he was one of the happiest fellows he had ever known.

I continued my walk, waiting to hear the far-off sound of a train whistle approaching at a high rate of speed. It told me it was the twelve o'clock freight train bound for the big city. I put my ear to the track, growing louder with every passing second. Then, as I'd done a hundred times, I got off the tracks and waited to see the mighty engine closing in on me. Smoke filled the air as the black monster was feet away, the noise deafening as I held my hands over my ears. Each car sped past until the caboose, which was the last thing I saw, disappeared, and all was silent again.

When the day came for me to graduate high school, I had only one plan: I would ride the train to the end of the line, a place I'd never seen in my longest walks on the tracks. I packed up some food and a canteen of Kool-Aid, then hid in the bushes until a slower freight train drew near. I saw an open door and ran to it, hoisting my bag into the box car and jumping on board.

Words can't explain the feeling of sitting on the floor with my legs dangling out of the car, watching the scenery change with every mile. Sometimes, other men would jump on board, meaning me no harm as they fell asleep on their way to someplace I'm sure I'd never been.

I spent two years riding the rails, seeing beautiful scenery, and meeting new friends. Somewhere along the line, I became a hobo who wanted nothing more than to see where the tracks led.

On my way back home, I visited old Mr. Lang. We sat on his porch eating ice cream push-ups, and he begged me to share my adventures, which I did. His smile got bigger with every story I told.

I went home and continued my schooling, landing a job on the railroad, working my way up the ladder, and becoming an engineer on the freight line that took me past Mr. Lang's country store, where I'd blow the whistle, knowing he was smiling maybe because he knew his dream became mine and dreams do come true.

Mike 2025