This train

"Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and unknown.  Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, and to them, alas! we return."

E.M. Forster

ABOARD THE LINCOLN SERVICE – There’s still magic in a train.  Not just in the soft, rhythmic clatter of the wheels, or the distant whistle that warns motorists at each crossing.

Pulling in to Dwight, Ill.

No, it’s the comforting combination of fixed destination ahead and fresh surroundings along the way. Because the view you get by train is both old and new.  Old, in that track routes were established in this country more than a century ago and have changed little since. New, because unless you work on the railroad, a passenger sees landscapes not often traveled otherwise.

So there are farmers’ fields, of course, though these days they seem lorded over by swirling wind turbines.  And snapshots of old, abandoned, industrial backsides of cities like Joliet and Pontiac. But also the bustling town squares of burgs like Dwight and Lincoln.

There’s still adventure in pulling alongside a squat train station, not knowing where you are until your window passes the town’s name fixed against the station wall. 

Smiles before the beluga show.

Zach and I are headed home aboard the Lincoln Service after a long weekend in Chicago.  He and I make a habit of getting away each year by ourselves.  Last year it was fly-fishing in Colorado.  One January we visited the Michigan cottage to measure the snow.  We’ve been to Phoenix for baseball spring training, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland … places of shared interest.

This time it was Chicago.  We took the Southwest Chief up on Thursday.  It’s a more direct route from Kansas City, angling northeast and passing through Marceline, Mo. – where Walt Disney learned to love the train’s whistle – through the southeast corner of Iowa, and then straight east into Chicago.

The Chief starts in Los Angeles, so there are elaborate sleeper cars aboard and not-bad dining.

Our trip home is not as efficient, angling south-southwest roughly parallel to old Route 66, through Springfield (“Lincoln Service,” remember?) with a stop in St. Louis, then west aboard the Missouri River Runner. True to its name, that train at times hangs incredibly tight to the river’s southern bluffs.  We’ll roll in at about 9:30 p.m.

Weaver men tend to be quiet sorts, though we do use these weekends to catch up with good conversation.  We also enjoy simply sharing the experience. 

City of Big Skirts.

We found a small hotel close to Michigan Avenue so that we’d be in the thick of Chicago’s bustle but also close to our beloved Lake Michigan.  We took in the aquarium – three beluga whales, we learned, can be as loud as a thousand banshees – dodged Twinkie residue at the Blue Man Group, and finished the visit with the Bulls game.  It was a perfect end to the weekend … the Bulls beating the Raptors by a two-pointer with less than a second left in overtime.

This is true city life.  Not the slow-paced, quiet cordiality of Kansas City, but the fast-moving mix of pedestrian-filled sidewalks, brake-riding cabbies, and the din of horns, truck exhausts and the occasional foul word.

On Day 1, Zach seemed unsure about the city’s speed.  But by Day 2, he’d fully caught up, even allowing that he could see himself living and working in such a place. 

City of Big Beans.

Chicago's the City of the Big Shoulders, Carl Sandburg wrote.  But we quickly learned it's also the City of Big Skirts – the Marilyn Monroe statue –  the City of Big Beans – the Cloud Gate sculpture – and the City of Big Doors – Oprah's door from her infamous TV show, on display at the city's broadcasting museum.

"Big" is Chicago's charm.

Oh, and it's best if you come with a big appetite. We also caught up with close friends Steve and his son Tyler, and Tyler’s friend, Sarah.   Steve’s slowly been working on a book about pies. So he discovered a little pie shop called Hoosier Mama’s on Chicago’s near west side.  We met there to talk and, of course, to eat.

As Steve will tell you, there’s a fine art to making the perfect pie. At Hoosier Mama’s, they were lined up almost out the door.  Artists clearly were at work inside.

Steve and Hoosier Mama.

We talked about the latest news among the families, but inevitably discussed what was ahead for the young ones around the table – Zach, Tyler, Sarah.  Not that Steve’s and my futures aren’t interesting.  But our paths are well-worn while theirs are barely touched.

Sarah and Tyler.

Each of the kids had a fascinating story to tell of their job hopes and dreams.  Okay, perhaps the fascination eluded them, but each is on a track foreign to me.  So it seemed  fresh and exciting.  Zach is gaining vast experience in video art and production, Tyler is mastering the law, Sarah is working in a Chicago office tower for a major advertising company.

And maybe “track” isn’t the right word.  There’s always uncertainty in these conversations … a lot of “hope to’s” and “plan on’s” and “we’ll see’s.”  And some worry, for sure.  It’s not like any of the three has a future locked down tight.

But that’s just fine. They shouldn’t be so sure of things, really. Not yet.  Not completely.

The track metaphor is appropriate in one sense, though.

Freedom train.

The joy of the train is the confidence you feel that you’ll eventually arrive at your destination safe and sound.  But meanwhile, during the trip, you can stare out the window, see things you’ve never seen, freely let your mind wander, imagine things unimagined.

Zach, Tyler and Sarah should be as confident … know the future will be there before they realize it, but in the meantime, savor the journey and its magic.

It’s a notion best not forgotten, especially among us mid-lifers.

The Lincoln Service is just now crossing the Mississippi.  It rides high atop what seems a very narrow bridge, with nothing structural between the window and the green, swirling waters below.

The bridge seems so fragile, which makes it thrilling.

This is St. Louis, my first home … where I was born.  There are so many memories here.  “Alas! we return,” wrote Forster.

But I think Woody Guthrie said it better, in another way. And I can’t help but hum the tune as the wheels clatter a beat across this iron trestle.

“This train is bound for glory, this train.”