TRAINS

A very young friend of mine is a committed Thomas the Tank Engine fan. It’s rare that I have seen him without a choo-choo in his hand. I am very pleased to see that. The gradual decline of railroading (both the model and real variety) is a sad loss to our culture. In my childhood no boy could imagine life without a train set. One of my earliest memories has to do with a wonderful train. It was summer a my family were vacationing at a cottage belonging to friends of my grandparents. My mother was not with us at the time. I believe she was still working, not having any vacation time available. She was to join us for the weekend. I should say all of this information I have learned many years after the event. I was far too young to know such things. All I remember on my own is standing at what must have been the train station when a magnificent steam locomotive pulling a passenger train approached the station. Huge, black, puffing steam, making clanking noises and hissing. I can see it in my mind now like watching an old newsreel from a long past age. (Well, so it is since this must have been around 1951, more than half a century ago.) I remember nothing about this vacation but the train and my mother stepping out of one of the cars. I was hooked.

The early 50s was a time when electric train sets still had tremendous popularity. One Christmas when I was about three, a train set appeared under the Christmas tree–not in a box, but already set up. My father had constructed a box with a tunnel through it. The Christmas tree sat on the box and train ran through the tunnel and around in front. This was a Marx train set. It didn’t do much but run around the track. Oh yes, there was a bell that rang every time the train passed a certain point. My parents quickly disconnected the bell which drove them crazy.

At the time I didn’t realize that this set made from inexpensive sheet metal was the bottom of the heap as train sets went, only a step above a wind-up train. Not till I got out and around with other kids who argued about the relative value of Lionel versus American Flyer. Fortunately, in 1957 I received a Lionel train set for Christmas. Lionel trains had all sorts of fascinating cars that actually did things. Each year for some years I received another card for the train: an automated barrel unloader, a car that delivered tiny cans of Boscoe, a mail car that popped open. Eventually my father built a large board the trains could run on complete with switches and an elevated track, but that meant the train was exiled to the basement. No care. It meant I could run it all year long and not just on Christmas.

I had to leave my trains in Chicago when I moved, but I eventually bought an HO gauge train to run around my Christmas tree. It never worked very well. A few years ago I found a Harry Potter Hogwarts express on sale. With the new type of snap together tracks it works quite well racing around my village of lighted houses during Christmas time. Just recently I purchased a wooden train set so the kids at church (including me) would have something to play with.

Opportunities to ride on real trains have been rare. I regularly used the elevated trains in Chicago to get downtown. I’ve used the Burlington, Northwestern, and Illinois Central lines to get farther afield. The only real train trip I took on my own was from Madison, Wisconsin to Minneapolis on the North Coast Hiawatha. I say from Madison, but that is quite right because the train no longer runs through Madison, the capitol of Wisconsin. Oh, no. The train only runs from Columbus, Wisconsin, a small town some miles from the city. You go to the old train station and catch a bus that takes you to the town with the train station. Well, it wasn’t all that bad because I discovered Columbus has a bank designed by Louis Sullivan.

I’d like to take a train trip again–in particular one that goes through the Canadian Rockies. Unfortunately the cost is enormous. So what isn’t anymore? I was in a store that sold old Lionel trains and saw the Milwaukee Road Diesel engine that I had. The price on it was $200, more than every bit of train equipment I ever owned put together.

Every year at Christmas time there is a train exhibit here in Ocala. I always go to see the trains even though it's basically the same thing every year. They always have old train magazines that they are giving away. I picked up Christmas 1989 issue because it had an article called "Trains in Church" There is a striking photo from 1949 (my birth year) of a small, wooden church with Alco DL109 engine pulling past. What a wonderful way to have a church. The author reflects on his childhood meditations on trains while at church where he thumbed through the hymnal looking for railway connections. The best one, which I have used myself, is the hymns "The Son of God Goes Forth to War"

The Son of God goes forth to war

A kingly crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar,

Who follows in his train?

I was quite disappointed that this hymn is missing from the new Evangelical Lutheran Worship. At least we still have the prayer about railroads: "And lead us not into Penn Station, but deliver us from evil."

Even if you can't follow in a train, follow the path set before you. May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

WILD WANDERINGS ON THE WAY

Not surprisingly, after a year of writing this blog, I am running out of interesting things to say. Yes, I hear you. You think I ran out of interesting things a l-o-n-g time ago. Ha! A pox upon ya, ya scurvy son of a sea dog. (I'm writing this on Talk Like A Pirate Day. Arrrrr!) I've found it harder to write things lately mostly because the ideas that come up are rather involved and require substantial essays to work properly. I have one on philosophy that is going nowhere, another on being a benedictine oblate from last year, another I have thought about on the Iraq war, and one I started about my great-grandfather.

After a year of doing this I have developed some understanding of this strange world of social networking. I am amazed that my profile has been read over 800 times on Myspace. Of course this is nothing. Some young people have hit counts in the seven or eight thousand range, in the space of a year or two. Of course I only have seven friends listed, and I had to beg two of them to take me as friends. I could have a lot more "friends" on MySpace because I get numerous friend requests, but they are always from strange women not wearing very much who are interested in selling pictures of themselves wearing even less.

For someone who just wants to write rambling opinions, this Blogster is much safer. Occasionally I get comments from complete strangers which I find interesting. I wonder how they fall into this blog? Most of my readers are people I know at church or relatives or even a few real friends, but there are thirty people or so who drop in every week –certainly more than I can account for.

This whole Internet phenomena gives pause for thought. I write a blog, and people I don't know look at it. Maybe some come back again, probably most are one time visitors. But they are all folks who would never have read anything of mine had this vast system of communication not appeared.

I have learned to stay away from most forums or discussion groups because they seem to degenerate into attacks quite quickly. In fact, some people seem to be seeking others to attack. I find it sad that religious forums seem to be especially prone to this. People seem to look for reasons to criticize others, especially if they share the same religion. I've seen some particularly nasty attacks by Lutherans on people not regarded as being sufficiently orthodox.

Another strange phenomenon of the Internet world is the practice of "Googling" someone. You type their name into the little box, hit search, amd voila! More than you could want to know about a persin. I've Googled myself. Naturally, a link turns up to the church website, several to the Ocala Civic Theatre where my name appears among the volunteers, one to the classmates page for my high school, one to an online petition I signed for clergy supporting the teaching of evolution (someday that's going to get me into trouble), a few links to this blog, and bunches to Lulu.com where my book and play scripts are available. I'm surprised so many people (over three-hundred) have stumbled into my store there, and even more surprised that a couple dozen people have taken the time to download my free scripts. Now if someone would only perform them. Well, you can't have everything.

Oh yes, some time back I found a mention of my doctoral dissertation online. You know, that ponderous tome with the catchy title that starts "Cognitive Dissonance and the Effect of Acceptance of Methodology, Beliefs . . ." zzzzzzzzzzzzz So what? I've found online a copy of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grand father Jacob Heerbrand's book Compendium Theologiae published in Latin in 1575. I wonder how many people have actually tried to read that thing? It takes forever just to download a single page. Great (11x) grandpa wrote a lot of stuff, some of which is better forgotten. He thought that a comet appearing in 1577 was a sign of the end of the world and held a disputation against witchcraft. Consider the time period, however. Besides, family is family, and I am sure most of the stuff I have written sounds like the work of someone suffering from a severe mental disorder or maybe just a bad case of silliness. If only I could write like Robert Benchley, that would be an achievement. Maybe I would get to act in movie shorts like he did. Ever see "The Treasurer's Report"?

Well, speaking of acting I have a performance coming up (literally as you are about to discover.) I am playing the part of the Voice in The Journey. The director says my screaming is fine, but my vomiting needs work. I have to go practice for a while.

Until next time, faithful fans and visitors, may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

OF GOLD AND SILVER, MITTENS AND GLOVES

It's tough learning all the stuff you need to know early in life. Take colors for example. You're supposed to know the difference between boo, wewwow, and gween. And once you've got that down, they throw silver and gold at you. These two metallic sheens present a problem, because it is not always clear which color is which, at least not in my experience. Oh, when you were looking at both at the same time, you could tell the difference and probably attach the right name to the right color, but being presented with only one of was problematic. I think I tended to call either one of them gold. Well, gold is easier to say.

It is important to get the distinction straight before becoming a grownup. Referring to you dearly beloved's hair as silver instead of gold is likely to get you a good smack. I try to remind myself of this with the old song: "Mother you are growing old. Silver threads among the gold." No lady wants to be told she reminds you of your mother.

Maybe hair color isn't such an issue anymore. I was paying for my auto tags a while back rather intrigued by the young lady ahead of me who had jet-black hair done up in spikes with the last couple inches dyed a bright red. I suppose that's making a statement, but I don't know exactly what. At least the hair drew attention away from the bizarre silver chain (silver, not gold. Gold is out; silver is in) that stretched from her nose to her earlobe. Of course when I was growing up some of the older ladies had blue or purple tinted hair, but that was a much more subtle shading than the bubble-gum pink and turquoise I have seen in recent years.

Deciding what color my hair should be was never an issue for me. As I understand it, I started out with very light red hair which faded to blond of various nondescript shades and is now being replaced by sort of tarnished silver–at least in places where it hasn't fallen out all together.

As I recall in my youth (funny how I can remember stuff from my childhood, but not where I put my pen ten minutes ago), I also had trouble with the words gloves and mittens. I was quite aware that there were two types of hand covering. One clothed each finger independently, the other bunched the fingers together in something like a sock while protecting the thumb with its own little hiding place. Yes, I know the difference, I just didn't know which one was a mitten and which was a glove. This could be highly problematic when your mother asked you what you wanted to wear, gloves or mittens. What should you ask for? For that matter, it was a problem even if you could get the names straight. Which did you really want? Mittens kept your fingers warmer and were far easier to put on. With gloves you had to insert each finger into it's own place. There was always the hazard with leather gloves that the cloth lining would have pulled out of the fingers that the last time I had taken them off, and I would have to work the lining back into the fingers.

However, mittens had their own drawbacks. It was very difficult to hold things with a mittened hand. It was well nigh impossible if the mittens were made of some plastic faux-leather that stiffened in the cold so that your hands were frozen into position. If you dropped something, you had to take off a mitten to be able to get it off. But how were you to take of one mitten when the other hand was encased in the same inflexible material? The only solution was to grab the end of the mitten with your teeth and pull. But don't let any adult catch you doing that. They would have a fit about you wrecking your teeth.

Eventually one graduated permanently from mittens to gloves. Often with the graduation one also did without the clips that attached the mittens to the sleeves of one's jacket. Ah, this began a sad chapter in my life: losing gloves. I say gloves, but I don't mean a pair of gloves. Generally I lost one glove of a pair. I have no idea where they went to. Every winter I wore a path to the lost and found box in the principal's office to search for a missing glove. Never did I find one. I was not alone in losing things. The box was filled with articles of clothing mislaid by students. The most peculiar item, however, was a pair of pants. Now I could see losing a glove or hat or scarf, but how did one lose their pants at school. You'd think a person would notice. Wouldn't it be a little drafty?

Ah, losing things. That brings me back to my missing pen. I know it's around somewhere. I have not taken it out of my apartment. Nevertheless, it is gone. I have been losing things this way my whole life. Where you suppose it all goes–the pens, gloves, and socks? And isn't it strange that other things I have been able to keep possession of for years and years–like the 50 cent piece my Aunt Olga gave in 1962. Still have it. It's made of silver you know, 900 fine. And talking about silver is where this rambling episode started.

Whether you travel streets paved with gold or muddy trails through the woods, may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne