The story I am submitting today, February 23, 2020, is included in the book of short stories that will be published some time during this year. I hope you enjoy it.
THE HAT
“Joan, come, look what I bought for you,” he announces. From the kitchen, I yell, “Just a minute; I’m cooking.”
Breakfast is our special time together. This morning I am making our favorite savory cheese omelets, crispy pecan waffles, and sweet fruit compote. Down goes my spatula as I turn off the cook top heat. Then I saunter into the living room to see a very large round box on an end table, tied with a beautiful gigantic blue ribbon.
“My goodness, is that a hat box?”
“You bet it is!”
“Maury, why would you buy me a hat?”
“To wear to the big event this weekend.”
“I love you, but you know I don’t wear hats.”
“I know, but this time I want you to look extra special and it’s the tradition.”
I untie the large ribbon sealing the contents, open the box, and stare inside. There it is--the hat.
“Well, this is really something,” is all I can bring myself to say.
“Try it on”
Gently I lift the thing out of the box and slowly place in on my head. Dare I look in the mirror? I stare at my image without a word.
“Honey, you look beautiful.”
I meekly smile. Maury, my husband of ten years, is a very nice man. We met during our senior year at college.
All week I’ve thought about that hat. I try it on and gaze at myself in the mirror, looking right, then left. I hate this hat. It’s too big, too fussy, too not me. However, my husband bought it for me, so I really shouldn’t refuse to wear it. That strange bird on top looks like it has been dissected. I’m not certain what those purple plumes are supposed to be. Is there such a thing as a purple bird? I see the end of an arrow poking out; it must have killed that bird. The tacky green ribbon on top doesn’t match my blue outfit and I never wear green.
I don’t want to hurt Maury’s feelings. I could tell him that it doesn’t go with the outfit I am going to wear. But he’ll probably have a comeback like, “Then wear something that does go with it.” I resign myself that I will wear THE HAT.
ᶴᶴᶴ ᶴᶴᶴ ᶴᶴᶴ
Today is the big day, the first Saturday in May. After I dress in my new blue polka dotted frock, another gift from John, I grit my teeth, put on the hat, and get in the car. The drive to Louisville takes about an hour. When we reach the parking lot, he instructs, “Honey, look around while I drive slowly. Maybe you’ll see an open spot before I do.” We find a place, park, and walk to the entrance gate. Here we are on this warm sunny day joining the crowds of swarming people filing into Churchill Downs. We slowly ascend the steps to find our seats in the grandstand.
The Kentucky Derby is not my thing. Watching a bunch of horses kick up dust around a track, while people are screaming in my ear is not my idea of a good time. I do like the taste of this mint julep, though; it’s bittersweet on my tongue. Maybe Maury will buy another for me. This first one is delicious.
He smiles, “You look wonderful. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Sure,” I mumble as I slowly sip my frosted drink. My brow is moist; I feel drops of perspiration beading on my forehead then skiing down my nose. My underarms are dripping. Why did he choose a long-sleeved dress? At least the hat keeps the sun off my face.
Thank goodness, it’s tradition for women to show off fancy, schmancy hats for this soiree. While my husband is talking with friends, I occupy my time looking at all the women’s chapeaus around me.
There is a yellow monstrosity with replicas of running horses on it. I wish the horses would run away with it. That woman looks so silly. Someone her age should go for something like the young lady in the row directly in front of me. She has a lovely hat with red poppies and purple orchids. I think that’s what they are. Nonetheless, she gives the appearance of having a garden growing on her head. Maybe that is the look she’s going for. I hear her infectious laughter. The people in the top row can probably hear it. I believe the entire stadium of people can hear her. I hope she doesn’t frighten the horses.
“Honey, what is that person way down front doing?” He pays no attention to my question. Oh yes, that man is holding a lady’s hat. It must have blown off while she was waving to a friend. Now that is a hat! I think the style is called a pillbox. Even though it doesn’t have a wide brim, it is tall enough for an eagle to find a perch. I wonder how she can balance that thing and still walk. Whoever decided that five bumble bees are a perfect topper must have been drunk at the time. I hope no live bees want to join them.
My hubby is having a grand time, as far as I can tell.
“Sweetheart, I’m going to place a bet. Do you want another julep?”
“Sure Maury, make it two.”
I’m usually not a gambler. Neither is my spouse. However, we agree we will place one bet of $100 for the winner. We look over the list of favorites and decide to choose Mind That Bird. It seems appropriate, considering what I am wearing.
I hear sounds—the costumed bugler in his red waistcoat and black boots trumpets the call to the post—the marching band plays “My Old Kentucky Home.” The spectators sing along. I guess we’re ready to begin. The horses are in the gates. Maury has his binoculars. I have my fourth mint julep. Talley ho, gung ho, or whatever one shays…
T-t-t-hey’re off!
We watch—we scream—we jump up and down—we win! This isn’t shsssuch a bad day after all.
Henry, Bertha, and Ralph
I consider myself a reasonable person and am not known as a bragger. However, I must confess I am quite proud to be a descendant of a respected family of merchants from my hometown of Mobile, Alabama. If an opportunity arises I have no hesitation to boast about the Bernstein family home, now on the Register of Historical Homes. One might assume that the residents of the home, Henry and Bertha Bernstein, were renown during their time in Mobile during the 1800s. They may have been, but that isn’t why the home is registered or interesting.
My first introduction to Henry and Bertha, my great-great-grandparents, came through the research done by my late father, Fred H. Vogel. During the 1970s he told me that the Bernsteins’ former home in Mobile was being restored and would become the site of the relocated Mobile City Museum. The City Fathers were designating it The Bush Home, the name of previous owners. However, my dad vividly recalled when he was a child going to that residence to visit his great-grandparents.
In order to set the record straight, my father took action. It took some time for him to locate the information in Mobile records and contact family members in other cities to finally produce the deed showing that in 1866, Henry Bernstein had purchased the property on the corner of S. Franklin and Government Streets along with the signed construction contract. Henry hired architect James H. Hutchisson and contractor Charles Fricke in 1872 to have the home built for the sum of $15,250.00. My great-great-grandfather was a smart and cautious man; the contract called for paying to Mr. Fricke the full home construction price in installments. He didn’t want any unnecessary delays. For instance, the contract specified, “When the first Tier of Floor Joist are on, $2,500.00 and when the second Tier of Floor Joist are on, $2,500.00,” and so on. This beautiful town home was a present for his wife on the occasion of the birth of their son, Moses. One of my distant cousins, now deceased, mistakenly believed the home was built in honor of her father’s birth, Jacob born in 1867. That was five years before the construction began. Now I can affirm that the house is known as the Bernstein/Bush Home, but citizens of Mobile recall this structure with other names. Now there is an unexpected and to some, unwelcome resident.
The Bernsteins were natives of Bavaria, a state in southern Germany. Henry was born in Huttenheim in 1829; Bertha Pauline Heidelberger came from Binkosher. I believe Bertha was born around 1832, but have no confirming documents. Henry named his business H. Bernstein and Company, Manufacturer and Wholesale Dealer in Boots and Shoes. It was a family business. His son-in-law, my great-grandfather, Herman J. Vogel, worked with him. Henry’s brothers, Lyman, Jacob, and Solomon were also salesmen with H. Bernstein.
Henry and Bertha had nine children, five boys and four girls. None of the boys were originally given middle names. I assume they had great respect and love for their father by changing their names to Phillip Henry, Solomon Henry, Jacob Henry, Moses Henry, and Ferdinand Henry. One of the girls was named Pauline Bertha, a reverse of her mother’s name. That is a confusing fact for family genealogists, like me. Pauline eventually married Herman J. Vogel. Another girl was named Henrietta, of course, and there were Cara and Minette. I suppose Bertha and Henry liked the sound of the name of nearby Bay Minette when they chose her name. Trying to keep the names and information separated is a challenge, but part of the fun of genealogy research. I compare my hobby to a treasure hunt or maybe a scavenger hunt. Each new discovery is a reward.
Eighteen years later Henry sold his home to Mayor J. Curtis Bush. There were many grand and glittering parties hosted by the new owners. According to the 1999 edition of the periodical, The Mobile, Alabama Harbinger. Henry decided to sell the house after the death of his wife in 1888. I suppose he no longer enjoyed living there without his beloved Bertha.
Henry and Lyman were very close, working together each weekday. By 1893, Henry had retired and moved to New York to live with his daughter, Minette Bernstein Ochs. Lyman remained in Mobile with his own business. Unfortunately, Lyman suffered from heart disease and died unexpectedly the morning of March 28, 1896, while at the home of his niece, Pauline Bernstein Vogel, my fraternal great-grandmother. On that same Saturday afternoon, upon learning of his brother’s untimely death, Henry had a sudden stroke and also died. Both men are buried in Mobile.
My first introduction to the home came in the 1950s when I attended a funeral. In 1922, the home had been sold to mortician, Frank Roche, who opened a funeral parlor, Roche Funeral Home. When the mortuary business moved to a new location, the house remained closed and in disrepair until the city decided to purchase the property in 1972. The family home housed the City Museum until 1999, when the museum relocated to the Old City Hall downtown.
My next encounter with the Government Street house came during a visit to my hometown after the Bernstein/Bush Home reopened as the Mobile Carnival Museum. Most people associate the celebration of Mardi Gras with the City of New Orleans, LA. The truth is that the first celebration of the carnival in this country was in Mobile. I enjoy informing friends of this fact at every given opportunity. According to the information on the Museum’s web site and an article from a Mobile newspaper:
Mardi Gras was celebrated for the first time in the New World in 1703 at Twenty-Seven Mile Bluff, the first settlement in Mobile. The first masked parading society, the Cowbellion de Rakin Society, was formed in 1830. A group of rowdies hit the streets with cowbells and rakes taken from a hardware store. Many additional societies have since formed. Currently, there are over 50 parading and non-parading organizations in Mobile.
The organizations, mystic societies, had secret memberships. All societies had formal balls for members and guests. Those who were not in costume were required to wear formal dress with tails for the men and long gowns for the ladies. I assume that still is the tradition. A primary focus of the celebration was the magnificent coronation of the Mardi Gras King and Queen and their Court. Tickets were required to attend this event. The African-American community may still have their own king, queen, court, and parading societies.
The celebration usually began several weeks before Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday, the day before the beginning of Lent. I always looked forward to attending the parades when I was a child. Some of my favorite parades were the Order of Myths, the Comic Cowboys, and the Floral Parade. The OOM always featured two maskers, one dressed as folly chasing the other representing death with a symbolic balloon weapon. The Comic Cowboys were raucous celebrants with each float poking fun at national, state, and local politics and politicians in the most irreverent and sometimes risqué way. On the Saturday afternoon before the official day of Mardi Gras was the Floral Parade. These beautifully decorated floats were ridden by children dressed in costumes appropriate for the parade theme. The Juvenile Queen, King, and their Court of eighth grade students completed this presentation. The marching bands always were wonderful to watch and enjoy no matter which society was parading.
Although the practice was later banned, individuals threw paper confetti at unsuspecting sidewalk strollers. A few years later, rolled streams of colored paper strips called serpentine took the place of confetti to prevent having someone choke on a mouthful of paper bits. That wasn’t as enjoyable as consuming a sweet marshmallow sandwich confection called a Moon Pie, thrown to the crowds of screaming revelers by costumed maskers on the decorated parade floats. When I moved to Tennessee, I was surprised to learn that Moon Pies originated in Chattanooga, where I now reside. They are still made at the Chattanooga Bakery.
Before the switch to motorized vehicles and electric lights to lead the floats for the evening parades, men held flaming torches to illuminate the way, while two mules labored to pull each heavy decorated float around the designated route. My father held me tightly to avoid being burned by the sparkling torches and swept away by the surge of people trying to catch the trinkets thrown from the floats. I saw empty downtown lots downtown transformed into mini-amusement parks with carnival rides, such as the popular Ferris wheel.
In 2006, as I again approached the old restored home, I was excited to see the beautiful iron lacework and tiled entrance porch. Once inside, I identified myself as a Bernstein relative and was given a royal welcome by the Museum’s Director. I strolled through the first floor rooms admiring the beautiful displays of magnificent jeweled and fur-trimmed costumes of former royal courts. Artifacts of Mardi Gras celebrations, such as noise makers, crowns, and scepters glittered in other rooms. An elevator to the second floor led to more exciting exhibits. Years later I discovered the carriage house and decorated float replica when I brought members of my out-of-town family to see the home. Then we were welcomed by the two costumed figures placed on each side of the porch entry steps. One mannequin was the jester of folly I recalled from my youth. We were treated to a short video about Mobile’s carnival in a small auditorium —a new tourist feature. It was fun climbing aboard the display float for a family photo. Before leaving, we didn’t miss browsing through the various souvenirs in the Museum Gift Shop.
It was during my first visit to the museum that I was introduced to Ralph. Well, I haven’t actually met Ralph, just learned of him. How wonderful, I thought to myself, we have a family resident. He is the Carnival Museum’s resident ghost. Many volunteer docents for the museum have reported multiple instances over the years of displays being moved or disturbed and lights being turned on when the house was empty. Recently I read about Ralph in a book written by Elizabeth Parker, Haunted Mobile, Apparitions of the Azalea City. She describes the home’s interior and Ralph’s shenanigans in detail in the first chapter.
However, I don’t think the name Ralph is quite appropriate. There had been speculation that a child’s spirit from the former funeral home was to blame for the unusual occurrences. I have a different theory regarding our ghost’s identity. Phillip Henry Bernstein, the first child of Henry and Bertha died in 1873 at the age of twenty-two. That was just after the construction of the home. I believe he is our ghost and is having a wonderful time in his home scaring some of the female volunteers with unusual noises or being a nuisance when they have to return displays to their proper locations—a misplaced crown, a mannequin turned in the wrong direction. What a way to continue the Bernstein legacy!
I consider myself a reasonable person and am not known as a bragger. However, I must confess I am quite proud to be a descendant of a respected family of merchants from my hometown of Mobile, Alabama. If an opportunity arises I have no hesitation to boast about the Bernstein family home, now on the Register of Historical Homes. One might assume that the residents of the home, Henry and Bertha Bernstein, were renown during their time in Mobile during the 1800s. They may have been, but that isn’t why the home is registered or interesting.
My first introduction to Henry and Bertha, my great-great-grandparents, came through the research done by my late father, Fred H. Vogel. During the 1970s he told me that the Bernsteins’ former home in Mobile was being restored and would become the site of the relocated Mobile City Museum. The City Fathers were designating it The Bush Home, the name of previous owners. However, my dad vividly recalled when he was a child going to that residence to visit his great-grandparents.
In order to set the record straight, my father took action. It took some time for him to locate the information in Mobile records and contact family members in other cities to finally produce the deed showing that in 1866, Henry Bernstein had purchased the property on the corner of S. Franklin and Government Streets along with the signed construction contract. Henry hired architect James H. Hutchisson and contractor Charles Fricke in 1872 to have the home built for the sum of $15,250.00. My great-great-grandfather was a smart and cautious man; the contract called for paying to Mr. Fricke the full home construction price in installments. He didn’t want any unnecessary delays. For instance, the contract specified, “When the first Tier of Floor Joist are on, $2,500.00 and when the second Tier of Floor Joist are on, $2,500.00,” and so on. This beautiful town home was a present for his wife on the occasion of the birth of their son, Moses. One of my distant cousins, now deceased, mistakenly believed the home was built in honor of her father’s birth, Jacob born in 1867. That was five years before the construction began. Now I can affirm that the house is known as the Bernstein/Bush Home, but citizens of Mobile recall this structure with other names. Now there is an unexpected and to some, unwelcome resident.
The Bernsteins were natives of Bavaria, a state in southern Germany. Henry was born in Huttenheim in 1829; Bertha Pauline Heidelberger came from Binkosher. I believe Bertha was born around 1832, but have no confirming documents. Henry named his business H. Bernstein and Company, Manufacturer and Wholesale Dealer in Boots and Shoes. It was a family business. His son-in-law, my great-grandfather, Herman J. Vogel, worked with him. Henry’s brothers, Lyman, Jacob, and Solomon were also salesmen with H. Bernstein.
Henry and Bertha had nine children, five boys and four girls. None of the boys were originally given middle names. I assume they had great respect and love for their father by changing their names to Phillip Henry, Solomon Henry, Jacob Henry, Moses Henry, and Ferdinand Henry. One of the girls was named Pauline Bertha, a reverse of her mother’s name. That is a confusing fact for family genealogists, like me. Pauline eventually married Herman J. Vogel. Another girl was named Henrietta, of course, and there were Cara and Minette. I suppose Bertha and Henry liked the sound of the name of nearby Bay Minette when they chose her name. Trying to keep the names and information separated is a challenge, but part of the fun of genealogy research. I compare my hobby to a treasure hunt or maybe a scavenger hunt. Each new discovery is a reward.
Eighteen years later Henry sold his home to Mayor J. Curtis Bush. There were many grand and glittering parties hosted by the new owners. According to the 1999 edition of the periodical, The Mobile, Alabama Harbinger. Henry decided to sell the house after the death of his wife in 1888. I suppose he no longer enjoyed living there without his beloved Bertha.
Henry and Lyman were very close, working together each weekday. By 1893, Henry had retired and moved to New York to live with his daughter, Minette Bernstein Ochs. Lyman remained in Mobile with his own business. Unfortunately, Lyman suffered from heart disease and died unexpectedly the morning of March 28, 1896, while at the home of his niece, Pauline Bernstein Vogel, my fraternal great-grandmother. On that same Saturday afternoon, upon learning of his brother’s untimely death, Henry had a sudden stroke and also died. Both men are buried in Mobile.
My first introduction to the home came in the 1950s when I attended a funeral. In 1922, the home had been sold to mortician, Frank Roche, who opened a funeral parlor, Roche Funeral Home. When the mortuary business moved to a new location, the house remained closed and in disrepair until the city decided to purchase the property in 1972. The family home housed the City Museum until 1999, when the museum relocated to the Old City Hall downtown.
My next encounter with the Government Street house came during a visit to my hometown after the Bernstein/Bush Home reopened as the Mobile Carnival Museum. Most people associate the celebration of Mardi Gras with the City of New Orleans, LA. The truth is that the first celebration of the carnival in this country was in Mobile. I enjoy informing friends of this fact at every given opportunity. According to the information on the Museum’s web site and an article from a Mobile newspaper:
Mardi Gras was celebrated for the first time in the New World in 1703 at Twenty-Seven Mile Bluff, the first settlement in Mobile. The first masked parading society, the Cowbellion de Rakin Society, was formed in 1830. A group of rowdies hit the streets with cowbells and rakes taken from a hardware store. Many additional societies have since formed. Currently, there are over 50 parading and non-parading organizations in Mobile.
The organizations, mystic societies, had secret memberships. All societies had formal balls for members and guests. Those who were not in costume were required to wear formal dress with tails for the men and long gowns for the ladies. I assume that still is the tradition. A primary focus of the celebration was the magnificent coronation of the Mardi Gras King and Queen and their Court. Tickets were required to attend this event. The African-American community may still have their own king, queen, court, and parading societies.
The celebration usually began several weeks before Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday, the day before the beginning of Lent. I always looked forward to attending the parades when I was a child. Some of my favorite parades were the Order of Myths, the Comic Cowboys, and the Floral Parade. The OOM always featured two maskers, one dressed as folly chasing the other representing death with a symbolic balloon weapon. The Comic Cowboys were raucous celebrants with each float poking fun at national, state, and local politics and politicians in the most irreverent and sometimes risqué way. On the Saturday afternoon before the official day of Mardi Gras was the Floral Parade. These beautifully decorated floats were ridden by children dressed in costumes appropriate for the parade theme. The Juvenile Queen, King, and their Court of eighth grade students completed this presentation. The marching bands always were wonderful to watch and enjoy no matter which society was parading.
Although the practice was later banned, individuals threw paper confetti at unsuspecting sidewalk strollers. A few years later, rolled streams of colored paper strips called serpentine took the place of confetti to prevent having someone choke on a mouthful of paper bits. That wasn’t as enjoyable as consuming a sweet marshmallow sandwich confection called a Moon Pie, thrown to the crowds of screaming revelers by costumed maskers on the decorated parade floats. When I moved to Tennessee, I was surprised to learn that Moon Pies originated in Chattanooga, where I now reside. They are still made at the Chattanooga Bakery.
Before the switch to motorized vehicles and electric lights to lead the floats for the evening parades, men held flaming torches to illuminate the way, while two mules labored to pull each heavy decorated float around the designated route. My father held me tightly to avoid being burned by the sparkling torches and swept away by the surge of people trying to catch the trinkets thrown from the floats. I saw empty downtown lots downtown transformed into mini-amusement parks with carnival rides, such as the popular Ferris wheel.
In 2006, as I again approached the old restored home, I was excited to see the beautiful iron lacework and tiled entrance porch. Once inside, I identified myself as a Bernstein relative and was given a royal welcome by the Museum’s Director. I strolled through the first floor rooms admiring the beautiful displays of magnificent jeweled and fur-trimmed costumes of former royal courts. Artifacts of Mardi Gras celebrations, such as noise makers, crowns, and scepters glittered in other rooms. An elevator to the second floor led to more exciting exhibits. Years later I discovered the carriage house and decorated float replica when I brought members of my out-of-town family to see the home. Then we were welcomed by the two costumed figures placed on each side of the porch entry steps. One mannequin was the jester of folly I recalled from my youth. We were treated to a short video about Mobile’s carnival in a small auditorium —a new tourist feature. It was fun climbing aboard the display float for a family photo. Before leaving, we didn’t miss browsing through the various souvenirs in the Museum Gift Shop.
It was during my first visit to the museum that I was introduced to Ralph. Well, I haven’t actually met Ralph, just learned of him. How wonderful, I thought to myself, we have a family resident. He is the Carnival Museum’s resident ghost. Many volunteer docents for the museum have reported multiple instances over the years of displays being moved or disturbed and lights being turned on when the house was empty. Recently I read about Ralph in a book written by Elizabeth Parker, Haunted Mobile, Apparitions of the Azalea City. She describes the home’s interior and Ralph’s shenanigans in detail in the first chapter.
However, I don’t think the name Ralph is quite appropriate. There had been speculation that a child’s spirit from the former funeral home was to blame for the unusual occurrences. I have a different theory regarding our ghost’s identity. Phillip Henry Bernstein, the first child of Henry and Bertha died in 1873 at the age of twenty-two. That was just after the construction of the home. I believe he is our ghost and is having a wonderful time in his home scaring some of the female volunteers with unusual noises or being a nuisance when they have to return displays to their proper locations—a misplaced crown, a mannequin turned in the wrong direction. What a way to continue the Bernstein legacy!
MAGIC CARPET RIDES
Have you ever experienced a train ride? I don’t mean a subway train, but a real locomotive leading a line of railcars going from city to city. There is nothing like it—a real treat.
Beginning at a snail’s pace, the engine picks up speed, traveling through the countryside and small towns with their storefronts easily within sight. “Whoo, whoo, whoo,” the train calls to the passing world and you are going with it.
***
My first experiences with trains began when I very young. I recall trips from my hometown to visit my mother’s family in Little Rock, Arkansas. Usually Mom and I went in the summer. I don’t recall how many times we traveled; it seemed to be a yearly ritual. The excitement I felt each time we packed our suitcases and left from the downtown Louisville & Nashville Railway Station has stayed with me. I felt like we were embarking on a magic carpet, on our way to a special adventure. The acrid fuel smell of the depot added to my sense of participating in an escapade of going out-of-town.
After hearing “All Aboard”—music to my ears—Mom and I climbed the steps to the Pullman car. We made our way to our assigned seats facing each other—like mirrored couches. After everyone boarded, the sound of the wheels below started slowly— train moving—taking us further from the city streets. Clickity, clack, clickity clack, we’re on our way.
My least favorite part of the trip was our transfer from the arrival station in New Orleans, Louisiana, to another depot across town. Late at night we hired a taxi to take us to our destination. Mom and I never missed our connection, but I felt nervous until we were there.
George Pullman’s company created the sleeping cars for train travel. Spending the night on a train was a treat for me. I doubt my mother experienced it quite that way. The two Pullman seats converted to a single bed with privacy curtains facing the aisle. After our preparation for the evening in the bathroom at the end of the car, we changed into our night clothes. I always slept with a comfort companion, my baby pillow, the size of today’s travel pillows. In the morning, we somehow changed back into street clothes. There never was room to sit up straight. I always hated getting dressed that way—arms and legs in awkward positions—trying not to bump each other.
Train cars did not roll smoothly across the tracks. Sometimes it was necessary to hold on to the sides of the walls or back of seats to keep steady on our feet with the train’s swaying to and fro. We made our way to the dining car through enclosed platforms attaching each car to the other. Sometimes we had to traverse more than one car.
“Honey, take my hand.”
“Mom, I’m okay. I won’t fall.”
The dining car was better than a restaurant. To be able to enjoy a meal while watching the passing landscape was my favorite part of the journey—viewing cows grazing in a pasture—an occasional farmer tending his crops—a living movie.
I became acquainted with a cracker I will forever associate with the Little Rock trips—Rye Crisp. I had not seen nor tasted this crunchy delicacy before. I thought it was only served on trains. The crisps were on the table when we sat down. Once the butter arrived, I lathered my cracker to enjoy the combination of sweet butter with the salty, nutty taste of my newly found treat. Soooo good.
The railway porters converted the seats to beds at night and restored them in the morning. All were back in place when we returned from breakfast for the remainder of our trip.
As the train approached the Little Rock station, I stared out the window in eager anticipation.
“Momma, we’re almost there.”
“Yes. Gather your things.”
I strained to see what was ahead of us. Then the train slowed, chugging at a snail’s pace into the large depot, and squeaking to a shuddering stop.
“Can we go now?”
“Not yet, we have to get our luggage.”
“Look, I see Grandma and Aunt Louise.”
“Yes, I see them waiting for us on the platform. We can go now. Grab my hand.”
Hugs and kisses marked the beginning of our vacation adventure. I loved being in Little Rock with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. There were streetcars, a zoo, and even a department store with escalators and a balcony restaurant, unlike anything at home.
One year in my early teens our trip home from Little Rock was quite different. This time my grandmother returned with us for an extended stay in Mobile. To make her more comfortable, we traveled in a private room that accommodated sleeping for four people. It also had a private lavatory. I felt like we were royalty and I was a prince
***
The next time I rode in a railway car, the trip was not as comfortable, but equally exciting. The teenage youth group to which I belonged traveled to Birmingham, Alabama, for a regional weekend convention in December. The arrangements kept us separated from the other cars. The connecting doors were locked, probably a wise move considering we spent the entire trip singing and laughing at the top of our voices.
During the weekend, someone in our group caught the flu. Before long almost all of us were sick. Our trip home took place late Sunday night. We shivered in the snowfall at the Birmingham depot waiting for our train to arrive. This time none of us was in the mood to laugh—and certainly not to sing.
***
Many years passed before I again traveled by rail. This time it was before my wedding in June, 1960. I had shopped for bridesmaids’ dresses, to no avail.
“Mom, I think I’ll go to New Orleans to shop. Cousin Michele can help me choose. I’ll call to see if it is okay. I’d like to see Grandma, too.”
I loved the round trip on the Humming Bird, the name of this L & N train. The day I left was clear and sunny. As the train came closer to our destination, it slowed. We were over water on a narrow set of stilted tracks. Only clear blue liquid was visible on both sides of the car. It was as if the train were hovering over the lake, on a special enchanted carpet. It was scary, but wonderful.
***
My last train trip—a pseudo trip—was here in Chattanooga. The Tennessee Valley Railroad offers short-term excursions in the area. When my two young grandsons visited, the family took a short ride from the Grand Junction Station to East Chattanooga. Chugging along, the boys stared out of the windows with fascination. Then we disembarked to view the locomotive reverse direction on a rotating turntable. We toured the railroad restoration shop and museum before re-boarding. In all, it took less than an hour. I treasured that opportunity to share the excitement of rail travel with the boys. They loved their magic carpet ride, a first for them.
I’ll always miss the call to board and the sound of the locomotive whistle. After all, as the song goes, “Pardon me boys, is this the Chattanooga Choo Choo?”