oldkicker
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- Joined
- Aug 23, 1999
- Messages
- 9,835
It was a steam engine.
My grandmother lived in a flat that faced out on High Street and the Globe theater. She always had a kettle on and biscuits in a tin. She was always so old. Even when I was so young. The placed she lived in had scores of flats. Some faced the front, the others the rear. The place ate up a city block, all sandy-looking stones and black-trimmed windows. The yard in back was hardscrabble and had an incinerator in it. Trash was burned and sometimes strewn about a bit.
Grandma's place was spotless. Wee chairs and tables and a little dinette just off the kitchen. It was the kitchen that centered the house. And it was there that you'd likely find my grandmother. Sitting by the table, sometimes playing cards. Having a cuppa. Telling a story to one of her sons or daughters. My aunts and uncles. It seemed that they were always there. Popping in after work to have a cup of tea and while away the time. Their husbands and wives would come too. The place was always ringing with laughter. And sometimes song too.
Across the street lay the steel mill, where Grandpa worked. He had lost a finger there, the ring finger on his right hand. It scared me when I saw it, but its loss did not diminish the gentleness of his touch. And his touch betrayed him. No matter the appearance that he strived to portray - the gruff exterior of a hardened working man - his inner peace and sweet, sweet love came shining through. It occurs to me that he might have been selective about who he gave a glimpse of that side to. Imagine what he must have thought of me. To let me in.
In all my life, I never heard my Grandma use a harsh word against anyone. She was thin, her hair in a bun, and she always wore a pair of slippers when she was in the house. Everywhere she went, people would know her and greet her with a smile. She liked to watch her shows on the telly at night. When I would stay over, she'd let me stay up to watch them too. Back then there was nothing on TV that a kid couldn't watch. Except for the monster movies. I didn't mind those. Grandma would let me sit on her lap when they came on. She told me it made her feel better when the scary parts came on.
The school I went to was about eight blocks away from Grandma's house. I rode the bus back and forth. One of the city buses, a double-decker. Sometimes I'd stop at the sweet shop after school and spend my bus money home and then walk to Grandma's. She'd scold me. I learned to save her a bit of candy. She'd still scold me, but then she'd ask what I'd brought for her. We'd sit at the table and have a cup of tea and a little blether.
Behind the school, a bit away, was the city park. It was a place of many delights. A large shallow pond with a fountain in the middle served as the centerpiece of the park. On Saturdays people would bring their miniature boats and sail them about the pond. Swing sets and chutey-chutes were sprinkled about the park. As were those awful spinning things. You'd sit on them and have someone twirl it, faster and faster. Fast enough so that it was hard to hold on. There was also a running track there. Cinder and white painted lines. The school held their annual field days there. We would dress in shoes and shorts and race against each other for ribbons. The best part about the park was the vast areas of open green areas. Sometimes they'd be turned into soccer pitches, but most times they'd be left open and would invite us all to romp. Each summer the circus would come to town and set up in the open areas. One of my uncles would take me and buy me peanuts and cotton candy.
The road from the school to the park was lined with houses on both sides, until you reached the railroad track. The track served as a line of demarcation between the city and the park. There was a trestle with a sidewalk that straddled the track. When you were on the trestle, you could look either way and see for what seemed like miles. Houses lined the track on one side and the green of the park on the other. For as far as I could see.
My Grandpa passed first. He lived to be 94. By the time he died, they had moved into a pensioner's place. A little duplex with tidy little rooms. Nothing much to maintain. Easy for the two of them to live in. Right up until the end, my Grandpa would take a bit of his pension money every day and walk down to the bookies to have a chat with his pals and put a little money down on a pony. He always considered that the money he took was lost money. When he won, and he didn't win often, it was found money to him. The real winner in the family was Grandma. Her and her bingo. She had a knack for picking the right card and it was an odd night when she didn't come home with something from the church bingo. Grandpa was well and able almost right to the end.
Grandma lasted two years past that. She died at 94 also. At the end she was just a slip of a person. She had gotten smaller, less tall I mean, and had whittled away to next to nothing. She missed old Paddy desperately. It is the custom there to have a service the night before the burial and then to leave the casket in the church so that people can come by as they can and pay their last respects. All of those people who once greeted her with warm smiles turned out. The church was full for the service and the cemetery was as well for the interment. Not a harsh word was said.
When I heard about Gran's passing I sat for a bit remembering her. My mind went back there again and I found myself standing on the trestle, over the train track. I gazed out over the scene in my mind's eye and watched as a plume of smoke appeared on the horizon, between the houses and the greenery. As it approached the trestle, the sound of the train became clear and then loud. Whoomph, Whoomph, Whoomph, Whoomph. The rythym became quicker as the train approached the trestle. The huge engine in front pulled the cars behind it with ease. It was a steam engine, glistening and oh, so strong. I realized that I was reliving a memory. The steam engine must have been one of the last of its kind. Deisels had overtaken them, retired them all. Except for this one. I positioned myself in the center of the trestle, right at the rail and watched the train approach. Each whoomph was accompanied by a plume of steam rising quickly. I braced myself as the engine approached the trestle and began to pass. Just as it reached the trestle, it whoomphed again and the steam came shooting out. It was warm and enveloping. And old. Somehow I felt at peace within it. As a child and as a man. I raced to the other side of the trestle hoping it would woomph once more, disappointed that it didn't. Then I watched it power its way to the horizon.
All of the steam engines are gone, but I remember them.
My grandmother lived in a flat that faced out on High Street and the Globe theater. She always had a kettle on and biscuits in a tin. She was always so old. Even when I was so young. The placed she lived in had scores of flats. Some faced the front, the others the rear. The place ate up a city block, all sandy-looking stones and black-trimmed windows. The yard in back was hardscrabble and had an incinerator in it. Trash was burned and sometimes strewn about a bit.
Grandma's place was spotless. Wee chairs and tables and a little dinette just off the kitchen. It was the kitchen that centered the house. And it was there that you'd likely find my grandmother. Sitting by the table, sometimes playing cards. Having a cuppa. Telling a story to one of her sons or daughters. My aunts and uncles. It seemed that they were always there. Popping in after work to have a cup of tea and while away the time. Their husbands and wives would come too. The place was always ringing with laughter. And sometimes song too.
Across the street lay the steel mill, where Grandpa worked. He had lost a finger there, the ring finger on his right hand. It scared me when I saw it, but its loss did not diminish the gentleness of his touch. And his touch betrayed him. No matter the appearance that he strived to portray - the gruff exterior of a hardened working man - his inner peace and sweet, sweet love came shining through. It occurs to me that he might have been selective about who he gave a glimpse of that side to. Imagine what he must have thought of me. To let me in.
In all my life, I never heard my Grandma use a harsh word against anyone. She was thin, her hair in a bun, and she always wore a pair of slippers when she was in the house. Everywhere she went, people would know her and greet her with a smile. She liked to watch her shows on the telly at night. When I would stay over, she'd let me stay up to watch them too. Back then there was nothing on TV that a kid couldn't watch. Except for the monster movies. I didn't mind those. Grandma would let me sit on her lap when they came on. She told me it made her feel better when the scary parts came on.
The school I went to was about eight blocks away from Grandma's house. I rode the bus back and forth. One of the city buses, a double-decker. Sometimes I'd stop at the sweet shop after school and spend my bus money home and then walk to Grandma's. She'd scold me. I learned to save her a bit of candy. She'd still scold me, but then she'd ask what I'd brought for her. We'd sit at the table and have a cup of tea and a little blether.
Behind the school, a bit away, was the city park. It was a place of many delights. A large shallow pond with a fountain in the middle served as the centerpiece of the park. On Saturdays people would bring their miniature boats and sail them about the pond. Swing sets and chutey-chutes were sprinkled about the park. As were those awful spinning things. You'd sit on them and have someone twirl it, faster and faster. Fast enough so that it was hard to hold on. There was also a running track there. Cinder and white painted lines. The school held their annual field days there. We would dress in shoes and shorts and race against each other for ribbons. The best part about the park was the vast areas of open green areas. Sometimes they'd be turned into soccer pitches, but most times they'd be left open and would invite us all to romp. Each summer the circus would come to town and set up in the open areas. One of my uncles would take me and buy me peanuts and cotton candy.
The road from the school to the park was lined with houses on both sides, until you reached the railroad track. The track served as a line of demarcation between the city and the park. There was a trestle with a sidewalk that straddled the track. When you were on the trestle, you could look either way and see for what seemed like miles. Houses lined the track on one side and the green of the park on the other. For as far as I could see.
My Grandpa passed first. He lived to be 94. By the time he died, they had moved into a pensioner's place. A little duplex with tidy little rooms. Nothing much to maintain. Easy for the two of them to live in. Right up until the end, my Grandpa would take a bit of his pension money every day and walk down to the bookies to have a chat with his pals and put a little money down on a pony. He always considered that the money he took was lost money. When he won, and he didn't win often, it was found money to him. The real winner in the family was Grandma. Her and her bingo. She had a knack for picking the right card and it was an odd night when she didn't come home with something from the church bingo. Grandpa was well and able almost right to the end.
Grandma lasted two years past that. She died at 94 also. At the end she was just a slip of a person. She had gotten smaller, less tall I mean, and had whittled away to next to nothing. She missed old Paddy desperately. It is the custom there to have a service the night before the burial and then to leave the casket in the church so that people can come by as they can and pay their last respects. All of those people who once greeted her with warm smiles turned out. The church was full for the service and the cemetery was as well for the interment. Not a harsh word was said.
When I heard about Gran's passing I sat for a bit remembering her. My mind went back there again and I found myself standing on the trestle, over the train track. I gazed out over the scene in my mind's eye and watched as a plume of smoke appeared on the horizon, between the houses and the greenery. As it approached the trestle, the sound of the train became clear and then loud. Whoomph, Whoomph, Whoomph, Whoomph. The rythym became quicker as the train approached the trestle. The huge engine in front pulled the cars behind it with ease. It was a steam engine, glistening and oh, so strong. I realized that I was reliving a memory. The steam engine must have been one of the last of its kind. Deisels had overtaken them, retired them all. Except for this one. I positioned myself in the center of the trestle, right at the rail and watched the train approach. Each whoomph was accompanied by a plume of steam rising quickly. I braced myself as the engine approached the trestle and began to pass. Just as it reached the trestle, it whoomphed again and the steam came shooting out. It was warm and enveloping. And old. Somehow I felt at peace within it. As a child and as a man. I raced to the other side of the trestle hoping it would woomph once more, disappointed that it didn't. Then I watched it power its way to the horizon.
All of the steam engines are gone, but I remember them.
