Even today, when
there are no steam whistles to bring about that “Blues in the Night” feeling,
trains are a romantic way to travel. We shun airplanes when possible, and take
long vacations in our RV, but manage an occasional train ride.
Recently I took
Amtrak’s Blue Water line from Chicago to Kalamazoo, both for an enjoyable and
inexpensive ride and for reliving much of my life. The journey began at Chicago’s
famous Union Station,
where I changed trains a few times in 1959 as I returned
from grad school at the University of Wisconsin to my home in southwest
Michigan. I recall gazing out the train window at snowy landscapes—Wisconsin
always seemed wintry then—dotted with only a few leafless trees.
Last week the train
moved slowly through Chicago‘s south side toward Indiana. For about 20 years I
lived in various parts of Chicago and its suburbs, first as a young bride, then
as a divorcée, and
finally as a happily remarried woman. During those years I found my vocation as a science editor, and edited many
textbooks for Rand McNally. Chicago was and is a magnificent city. Only the unrelenting
ice and snow drove us to move to San Francisco in 1980.
We rolled through
Indiana quickly, with Lake Michigan near but unseen to the north. As soon as we
crossed the border into Michigan, I felt at home. Cottonwoods and maples were
still August-green, but would begin to turn gold and scarlet in a few weeks. My
grandparents had a farm near Bridgman, and these same railroad tracks ran
through it. As a child in the forties I
often visited Grandma and Grandpa, where I balanced precariously on the rails
and put crossed pins on them to be fused into miniature scissors by passing trains.
At night I could hear the trains passing though. That was still the era of
steam trains with the lonely sounding whistles that promised adventure far away
in miles and years.
The train of today
continued on through the many small towns of Berrien and Van Buren counties. I
was born in Watervliet, a little paper-mill town that has nearly vanished (the
mill closed years ago, and the Pere Marquette trains no longer go there).
Though I still treasure my friends from childhood and high school, I was glad
to leave the oppressive life there. In the fifties my English teacher, Roy
Davis, made the mistake of introducing me to Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street, which helped me recognize the worst side of midwestern rural life. Roy
is fonder of small-town life than I am, and still lives in the next town,
Hartford, in a lovely century-old home. (On this nostalgic trip I had the
chance to visit him and his wife, Marion.)
The train was
delayed, as most trains tend to be, but
finally reached Kalamazoo. As it entered town I looked up past the huge campus
of Western Michigan University and saw the dome of Stetson Chapel at Kalamazoo
College. Four of the happiest years of my life were spent at “K” College, where
I was exposed to the wide world of literature, the sciences, music, and art.
Three of my college roommates loved the city so much that they have gone on
living there for more than 50 years, and a cousin who taught at Western has
remained there also. Going back to see them and walk around the campus is a
treat that I indulge in every few years. Old roommate Diane Worden met me at
the station, and we drove off to a Middle Eastern dinner. (Kalamazoo is more
cosmopolitan than it was in the fifties, when pizza seemed esoteric.)
I have spent
longer in airplanes waiting for takeoff than the train ride lasted, but in that
short trip I had relived much of my life. After a happy week I rejoined my
partner, who had driven the RV from California, and we began driving toward
Maine. Though this would be a wonderful vacation, I was grateful to have spent
some time alone aboard that train to yesterday.
