Caught by a Train

Lately, Chicago has been all over the news, and last night was no exception. As Obama supporters gathered in Grant Park and reporters interviewed locals, the Chicago accent washed over me and transported me home.

I grew up in Des Plaines, Illinois, a northwestern suburb of Chicago. I'm a mid-western transplant who sometimes has a hard time relating to New Englanders. You see, I don't drop my "r's" when I say "car" and I've been known to ask for a "pop and a sack of chips" or"do you wanna come with". I can't understand why anyone would want to eat a lobster or why I can't find a good steak at the market. And don't even get me started on the Cubs and the Bears! But I'm always amazed at the puzzled looks I receive when I recall getting caught by a train on my way to school or the store. "Oh my goodness, were you hurt?" No, why I would I be hurt, I wonder. Then it dawns on me that most people in New England, especially on Aquidneck Island, have no idea what I'm talking about.

No, I'm not referring to a terrible accident, or the T coming in late to the station. I'm talking about freight trains slowing down your entire day. Put the car in park, turn off the engine, open the windows (on a warm day), and start counting the cars. Sometimes, if the train looked especially long, we would get out to stretch our legs. I can remember being delayed as long as 20 minutes! And forget trying to outrun the train. As soon as you thought you had beaten the train to the next crossing the gates come down and here comes another train in the opposite direction.

Click-clack...click-clack...9...10...27...click-clack...click-clack...35...41...47...click-clack...click-clack...CABOOSE!! Quick, back in the car, start 'er up, buckle in, and go about your business.

Sometimes I really miss watching the cars go by, the forced break in an otherwise busy day, and the sound of train as it sped down the tracks. Come to think of it, that sound is almost as lulling as the sound of waves breaking on the beach. Almost.