|
|
|
|
Light Years
I always thought my Grandpa had the most fascinating job. He used to be a train conductor. I'd sit at the foot of his tattered armchair and patiently wait for the next dose of tales he would proudly dole out to me. All day he had "rode the rails," as he called it, sunlight speeding by outside the train windows, just a finger's length away. He told me about all the people he'd met and places he'd been. He described places like Manhattan, Valhalla, Pleasantville, White Plains and Mount Kisco, and these names sang to me like fairies on my shoulders. Everything sounded enchanted and perfect, the way he described it.
The day after hearing a new story, I would share it with my batch of friends and we would feverishly set to recreate all of the drama and beauty our ears had witnessed. I would don Grandpa's old conductor's cap and the silver-plated nametag he had given me, along with a faded blue blazer long ago thieved from my older brother's closet.
On a vanishing summer day in late August, I came upon extraordinary luck. Right there on the curb across the street from my house laid a gigantic cardboard box, once home to my neighbor's refrigerator.
Though my friends were away on vacation, this was not an opportunity to pass up. Dragging the box into my backyard, I hoped the sun would stay up long enough for my adventure to take place. With scissors from the kitchen, I cut holes in the top, windows on either side and a flap door in the rear, which I planned to use as if passing through from one train car to the next.
Once everything was in place, I ran upstairs and grabbed my cap, jacket and pin, haphazardly putting them on as I ran back downstairs. I was in such a hurry that I nearly did not notice my Grandmother standing beside my train-and I stopped abruptly when I did. My white-haired, glasses-wearing Grandmother was inspecting my newly created masterpiece, looking down into it as though something should appear. For a moment, I watched with her, hoping she knew something I did not.
"Hey, Gran," I said when I got bored of waiting, and I immediately began scanning the backyard for her counterpart.
"He's not with me," she said, reading my mind as she was known to do.
"I just came by for some milk. He bought fat free by mistake."
I nodded and waited for her to move away so I could climb in and begin announcing destinations. I hadn't had enough time to rig up flashlights as headlights, and already the sun was beginning to dive into our fence.
My Grandmother looked at me with tiny blue eyes. She had always somewhat frightened me, this apron wearing woman who could wield a spatula like a sword and silence a room with a look. This day was no different and I dropped my eyes to the grass, hoping if I counted every blade in sight, she'd be gone when I looked up. Instead, we both stood our ground and I soon realized she would not be leaving until I met her gaze. When I did, I was surprised to find she was smiling. It was, without question, the only time I had ever witnessed such a sight. Instinctively, I smiled back.
"Juliette, you have a magnificent imagination, " she said, waving her arm over my contraption in what I thought was a magical way. "All this that you create from boxes-Someone else's garbage." I smiled, thinking it was the right move. "What's in your head, all these stories you have, all these pictures and places and passions-use them, use it all." I kept smiling though I was not sure what I was supposed to hear.
"Please do it. Go and see and do and become."
Was she trying to tell me there were more boxes on the curb that I had missed? Maybe I could have made a station house too? I knew she was saying something important to me, but I was 7-years-old and most of her wisdom washed off me with the mild late-summer breeze. Only now can I hear her words, often when I dream of her smiling at me once more.
"You mean like Grandpa! How he goes everywhere and has all these great adventures-"
"No!" she spat, grabbing my hands and holding them together, a bridge between us. "Nothing like your Grandfather. Nothing like any of us. Nothing like we who stay still but talk of adventure." She shook her head and her bun wiggled atop her head like an unsteady snowball.
Not sure what she meant, but eager to defend Grandpa, I said, "But Grandpa goes everywhere! He sees everything! Everyone!"
My Grandmother closed her eyes and when she opened them they were shiny and clear, like the sole diamond she always wore on her finger.
"Your Grandfather dreams of mountains and ships that dock at unnamed islands and riding horses that gallop for miles without ever touching the ground." I closed my eyes and began to picture these places with Grandpa, but she shook my hands and I was face to face with her again.
"But these are just dreams, Juliette. Your Grandfather is just a dreamer," she said, the light fading quickly behind her. "For 30 years he rode that train, 6 times a day, 5 days a week, 12 months a year. He never got anywhere. Westchester to Manhattan. Manhattan to Westchester. The names might sound exciting, Juliette, but he never went anywhere, not one damn place!"
Realizing that a curse had passed her lips, she released my hands and stood tall and straight, flattening her apron with her palms. I stood straighter too, feeling the cap on my head like a weight. She took a deep breath and uttered the last words I was ever to hear from her on this topic.
"Just be careful, Juliette," she said slowly. "Be sure you are out there living your dreams and not fooling yourself into thinking you are."
Then she turned, heading empty-handed to her house down the block, and by then it was too dark for pretending.
©2003 Shawn J. O'Gallagher
Let's Talk About It!
Join us to talk about this story in the
Writers newsgroup.
|
|
