The
thirteen-year-old girl carried her one-year-old nephew aboard the train as if they
were getting onto a horse on a carousel ride.
I
don't know if that's how it went down. I only know that it happened. The
one-year-old boy was me, and my Aunt Sheila was the thirteen-year-old girl.
I've
heard the story numerous times—so many in fact, beginning when I was still a
young boy, that you'd think I remembered everything about the 13-hour train
ride. In truth, only one detail from that trip has ever been shared.
Most
of the times I've heard the story, my aunt was telling it, which always made me
feel good because a 13-hour train ride can be a very bonding experience. She
always told it as an adventure story—one that she was very proud to have shared
with me. It may have been a first adventure story for both of us, although Aunt
Sheila was the only one who realized it at the time. Nevertheless, being a part
of that story and hearing it later always made me proud.
The
story took place around 1947. The world was a different place then. A
devastating world war was behind us and the task of rebuilding a better world
was at hand. Not everyone liked everyone else, and there was still much wrong
in the world, but if the world war had taught us anything, it was that we were
all in this together.
Mom
and Dad were going a rough spell. Dad had dietary health issues that I believe
might have been related to 24-months as a POW in Germany. Aunt Sheila was
taking me from my home in Rochester, New York to my grandparents' home in
Lowell, Massachusetts, until Mom and Dad got back on their feet.
The
adventure would never have gotten off the ground had not everyone felt good
about it. Trains were safe, and a general atmosphere of helping one another,
being there for one another was the general rule. No transfers needed to be
made. I'm sure she got help from the adults riding with her.
We
got on and thirteen hours later, my grandparents met us at the train station
The
one detail that seems to define this story is a humorous one and my aunt Sheila
has always been a funny person, and she was usually the one telling the story.
A good laugh was always her go-to.
The
funny little detail that made such an impression on my aunt was about all the
other passengers who complimented her on her cute little boy and how proud she
must be. She'd have to explain that yes, she was proud, but that I was just her
nephew and not her son.
That
adventurous train ride was our first shared experience and took place over 70
years ago. We have gone our separate ways, sometimes living in the same city
only miles apart and other times living thousands of miles apart, but
throughout the years our paths have continued to cross. But we had never
traveled together after that one ride.
She
held my children in her arms when they were babies the same way she held me as
we rode the New York Central through the night.
When
I retired from the Post Office in 2010, I delved into what had always been more
of a hobby. I began writing books and short stories, and as a guest columnist
for my local newspaper, The Virginian-Pilot, I sent them an essay, which
they intended to publish. I don't remember what that essay was about. Because of
the deadly Charlottesville protest, they decided to run an essay I had previously
submitted that addressed the current divisive political climate, and entitled
it, "Believe in something bigger than hate."
When
a paper decides to publish something is entirely out of the writer's hands, as
is the case when an individual dies and their obituary appears.
It
was right around that time that my Aunt Sheila passed away, August 14 to be
exact. When my article was published on August 20, 2017, I noticed something no
one could have anticipated. Aunt Sheila's obituary was on the other side of my
guest column.
One
more ride together.
And
how fitting because my Aunt Shiela’s life was all about love and laughter and
joy.
Three
quarters of a century had passed between our two shared rides. So much has
changed. The reunifying, relatively safe world of 1947 had become by 2017, a
divided, once again belligerent world where a newspaper's headline writer used
my essay to remind us to believe in something bigger than hate.
I
don't put much stock in coincidences. Sometimes, things just happen.
However,
as proud as I think she was to be entrusted with caring for me on a
thirteen-hour train ride, and how much she enjoyed the story of how all the
passengers thought I was her child, I have a personal sense of gratitude that
we were able to take this one final journey together.
As
time has a way of doing, our thirteen-year difference doesn't seem as great
anymore. No one would mistake us for mother and son. We are just two travelers
on different journeys but traveling the same road—not the rails but the daily
newspaper.
