When the train comes along
Photo courtesty of CCPhotos CPD (Creative Commons, Attribution 2.5)
Wednesday. The middle of the workweek. Last weekend seems a distant memory and the coming weekend a far off goal.
There are over twenty six miles of railroad tracks at the industrial wasteland where I spend my workdays. I often watch as long lines of freight cars are assembled into trains bound for places far away. Trains can stir a nostalgic yearning for the freedom of the open country. The great hobo era of the Depression and Dust Bowl holds a certain romance for many, me included. The train is a symbol of freedom and a means of escape, as much as the river is. Work when you want, travel where you want, the hobo life has a certain appeal. I grew up along the rails and often hopped a slow moving freight to get into town and back. Spotting an open boxcar, I am often tempted to hop aboard and let it take me where it may, but I know that any train leaving this plant is only bound for another stinking, belching industrial plant.
C’est la vie!