Trained to Memory
The other day as I sat talking to a friend in the fireside room at Grays Harbor College, I noticed a smell. The aroma of diesel fumes wafted in the air, striking out at my senses, which caused me to be washed in the memory of days gone by. The smell was emanating from a friend who had just returned from a two month vacation. She had been out riding freight trains; I could not only smell the fumes but also see the train grease which was upon her clothing. After we talked, I was enveloped in the memories of my own stories of traveling and once again began to lust for that stench of the train and month old sweat upon my own clothes.
It is easy to remember how I ended up in that little town outside of Memphis, some suburb which consisted of three churches, two diners, and a K-Mart. The community was comprised of very hospitable townsfolk, who, I was sure, hadn't seen a hobo in decades. To tell the truth I can't remember ever feeling more welcomed in my life.
The journey to that dream-like town is still as fresh in my mind today as the moment it happened. I had been traveling for nearly two months at this time, because of running from the law, responsibility, and myself.
I got into some trouble in Washington and before I knew it I was doing the same thing that I had always done when times got tough: I left my home, my friends, and my family; and set off rambling to a new place where no one knew me, especially the law. I headed out east hoping to make it to Canada before the winter, but I never made it. In fact, I never made it past the Mississippi before I headed south; this was due to a string of fights across the northern states which ended in a brawl with the cops in St. Paul, Minnesota. Since I was court ordered to leave Ramsey County, Minnesota, by the judge, I decided that the quickest way out of town was south on I-35 to Austin Texas.
I stayed in Austin for nearly a month before realizing that, even though, Texas had been a lot of fun, I was getting tired of the constant heat, fire ants, the cheap women, and I needed something else. So I headed towards Texarkana where I would hop on a freight train for the first time since leaving Washington.
Texarkana was a dismal place. The dry heat and ticks caused me to hate the town more than any other place in America. The only saving factor of that blemish was it had a Union Pacific train yard. Even though it had taken nearly a week to gather supplies for the ride, I was ecstatic to be able to ride the boxcar that I had chosen. The few hours upon that junk of a train made me realize that I had chosen badly. So I hopped off in Little Rock and spent some time getting to annoy the locals. After spending half an hour being lectured by the cops about how they have "rules" and are willing to "oblige me", by taking me to jail, if I so choose or I could cross the river into North Little Rock. Though the idea of going to a town that had a documentary made about its gang and crime rate didn't sound too enthusing to me, (I took very little solace in the thought of being locked up in Arkansas;) and since my next train sat in the North Little Rock train yard, the choice was clear.
I waited until dark to set foot into the yard, mainly because the Bull (railroad police) might be apt to sic the dogs on me; and since I have an allergy to dogs that causes me to break out in dog bites, waiting until it was dark was the only option. I found a double-stack train car that had only one ridable spot, two feet above the grinding death traps known as the wheels. Not the safest way to travel but it worked for my purposes; plus I made a deal with God "he won't let me die and I won't panhandle in heaven." The deal seemed to work and I arrived in Marion, Arkansas where I was caught by a worker who didn't appreciate the fact that I was getting a free ride on his train. So I walked to Memphis, Tennessee nearly 17 miles from the train yard.
This is why my story always begins at the end because when I was in that small town, in that village, at the end of some dusty road which was full of hard working people, who had spent their life struggling to make ends meet; I realized this was as good as it would get. I made a decision in that town that I would return to Washington.
I headed north through Illinois, and on into Wisconsin. I then began the slow wait-and-hop-to-catch-a-train game all the way back to Washington. Somewhere along the way, between that town and Washington I realized I needed to face my problems and deal with the issues I was running from, so I did.
It has been nearly three years since I have been able to stare down an empty highway or listen to the music which emulates the sounds of my wanderlust upon those tracks, and I miss the freedom of only owning the clothes on my back and the other few possessions stuffed into my pack. I know that it was not a life of heroism or emotions caught in the grip of turmoil, longing for the touch of a love which had been won and lost.
My memories still linger as if beckoning me to cast aside the life I now lead, and perhaps I may one day.