Rock Island Boxcar
Posted in Uncategorized on 02/28/2007 10:42 am by admin
Rock Island Boxcar
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US $12.50
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Christmas in a Box Car
The year was 1960. I’d just moved to Chicago and I would have to spend Christmas alone, the first one ever away from my family. I’d bought gifts for everyone and packed them carefully into two big cartons and then dropped them off at the Railway Express office. I knew shipping by rail was slow, but since I was sending everything early, I knew it would all get there before Christmas.
I don’t remember now what the gifts were, but I do recall that each one was extra special that year. As it turned out, I was able to get away after all, so I decided to drive home to Peoria and just show up at my parent’s front door and surprise everyone on Christmas Eve.
And they were surprised, but not as surprised as I was, or should I say, as stunned as I was to discover that the gifts had never arrived. My reactions kept ricocheting between disbelief and disappointment, and then . . I got mad, and the more I thought about it, the more unhinged I became until I was on the verge of a wild-eyed fit. My mother tried to calm me down. She didn’t care that the packages hadn’t arrived; she was just happy that I was home. That was more than enough for her. She kept saying, “Aw, don’t worry about it. They’ll probably deliver them in a couple days. Come on, let’s have some hot eggnog.” My dad agreed.
Well, that wasn’t good enough for me. I said, “Get your coats, we’re going to the train station!” My dad said, “What? Why? There won’t be anybody down there on Christmas Eve.” My mother said, “Oh, Sharon, you just got here. Let’s not worry about that now.”
But they both knew what sign I’d been born under and when the bullhead kicks in, there’s no stopping a Taurus. Besides, I could always smell an adventure in the making.
So, everybody bundled up and we headed for the far edge of town. Looking back now, I realize what good sports they’d always been . . especially that night, letting me drag them out of the house on what must have seemed like a crazy wild goose chase.
My dad got into the swing of things right away. While we were driving he started reminiscing about the old same train station story he’d told us so many times—how once, years ago, he’d seen Nat King Cole. It was late at night and Cole and his musicians had just finished playing a gig in town and there they were, about to board the Rock Island Line and ride the rails back to Chicago. He said he remembered how tired they all looked . . . and kinda seedy and . . . smokey, but that Cole had a big smile.
Yeah, they were probably higher than a kite, but I thought it best not to mention that. Why clutter his nice memories with details? Besides, he said that every time he drove by the station after that, which wasn’t very often, he always thought about his one and only celebrity sighting.
I thought about my own memories of the Rock Island Line. They were the classic memories, the faint sound of a train whistle just as I was drifting off to sleep. . . it was a distant sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere way down the dark cinder alley behind our house. On the flat prairie lands of Illinois, you could hear the sound for miles before it finally trailed off. It was the same comforting, but kind of lonely sound that poets and songwriters often write about.
We turned the corner and pulled into the train yard, and in the dim light of the street lamps we could see about a dozen or so freight cars lined up on the tracks…boxcars, they were called back in those days. The place looked pretty dark and deserted, until I noticed a little watchman’s hut on the far corner of the yard. And there was a light on.
Now my dad was really enjoying himself. Any old reason to be around trains. My mother had just come along for the ride and to make me happy, but she certainly didn’t have the slightest thoughts of actually finding the gifts I’d sent.
Somebody poked their head out of the hut. I said, “Hey Look! Let’s go.” We walked toward the hut and the skinny guy with a crewcut turned out to be somebody from my old high school. I didn’t remember his name, but we vaguely recognized each other.
I explained my story, how I’d shipped two cartons from Chicago 10 days ago, and how they had never arrived, and how I’d come all the way down to spend Christmas with my family, and now the presents were missing—and that surely they must be here some place, probably in one of these box cars, so could I please, oh, please look through the cars and see if I could find them?
My mother gasped and looked at me with her mouth open as if it had just dawned on her why we were actually there. Yes, I was asking him to unlock each and every boxcar so I could climb in and dig around in the dark. But it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request to me. My dad just shook his head in disbelief, but he couldn’t stop grinning. And the young man seemed to be excited about the idea!
He got a flashlight and the two of us started going through the first car, stumbling over piles of cartons—cartons that probably contained Christmas presents that also hadn’t gotten delivered on time.
My mother and dad stood outside peering through the sliding doors, breathing vapor into the cold night air. I’m sure she was also sucking air through her teeth at the thought of us inconveniencing this poor young man, the lone night watchman who had to work on Christmas Eve; the one who I could tell was having fun.
We had just started digging through the second car when I spotted our address on one of the cartons, and then on the other. I let out a squeal! It was Christmas miracle. It seemed almost surreal, and yet, something about it seemed like the most natural thing to be happening.
I was so thrilled and so grateful. He helped us put the cartons into the back seat and I handed him a big fat tip and as we pulled away, we were all wearing warm fuzzy smiles. We got home, opened our gifts, laughed our heads off, and finally had that cup of hot eggnog.
My parents are part of my memories now, but if the guy from the boxcar is still around, I hope he can remember the night he became my Christmas hero.
About the Author
Sharon Rockey is a freelance ghostwriter who focuses on numerous subjects including business, finance, culture and personal memoirs. Her online portfolio can be found at www.webspinstudios.com.
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