Be Alert

Train tracks separate our tiny town into North and South halves. Houses line the length of the tracks and their walls shake and rumble each time a train blows through with loud bursts of a deafening “whistle”. Sometimes the engineer just blasts the warning at each end of the town and maybe once as it passes through the middle. Other times that horn screams the entire length of the town. One might wonder how someone could live so close to all that noise. Others may wonder if someone could get used to the constant rumbling and screaming train, day after day and all hours of the night. 

The train has become such a staple in this town that a replica horn is used to celebrate touchdowns for our football team, who’s field lies parallel to the tracks. I’ve witnessed the engineer sounding “hello” or “go team” bursts from the blaring train trumpet on a Friday night. 

Each of the three crossings spread over the half mile or so could be a reminder of lost loved ones who didn’t take the warnings of the blasting horn or a constant reminder that there is somewhere outside of this little town as the cars fly past on their way to somewhere down the tracks. More likely they are an annoyance to anyone who might be unnerved by the decibels that the horn causes or even a comfort of something predictable; the train comes, and the train goes. 

When the train comes from the west you can literally see it coming around the mountain. As it draws near the arms of the crossing lower, bright red lights flash and finally the sound of the horn is audible. 

I like to watch it come from the east in the morning. Far from the crossing at the east end of town, I can see the headlight approaching. Trees line either side of the tracks and the sun paints the sky in the backdrop. Sometimes the fog is just lifting and it appears that the train is emerging from a dream. As I wait, the ground begins to quiver with the approaching thunder from tons and tons of steel pounding the earth. Rummbum, rummbum, humm-mmm-mmm. “Ding-ding-ding” the chimes on the arms begin to warn me that they are coming down. “HOOOOOONNNNNKKKKK!” The horn blares. “Hoooonk-honk-honk!” 

The thunder grows closer and the horn blows louder. I stand my ground. 

Whish-whoosh-whish-whoosh, ching-ching-ching, the massive cars on the train rush past me and as they cut through the still morning air the force of their weight and speed cause my truck to rock and sway. 

It’s a powerful moment! 

During the time that I’m watching the train approach and pass me I find it hard to concentrate on anything else. I set my truck in park just to be sure I don’t let off the brake and roll forward. My mind can barely process all the noise and lights and motion...I try to stare at one place so that my eyes don’t catch the colorful art that decorates the cars and cause me to become dizzy...I wave to the engineer in the caboose...wondering if I will ever see him again and where he’s headed. 

As quick as it came, it’s gone. 

The air grows still and the crossing arms raise; I watch the giant blur disappear around the bend silently and then continue on my way.

Around here I never see anyone try to cross the tracks once the crossing arms are down. I don’t even see anyone try to get across once they start their warning, usually folks are content to wait. When I hear that sound I always want to be ready. It’s not one to ignore.

One day the horns and rumblings won’t be a train. The thundering will be hooves, trumpets will announce what’s coming. There won’t be time to get ahead of it, there won’t be an opportunity to get around it and I will not wave to the engineer; I will saddle up and follow because I’ll know where they’re going, and I will not be left behind. 

Until then, I’m content to wait...but I keep listening. I keep watching. I keep preparing.