I was awoken late one night to the sound of a train horn, distantly at first until it arrived, following that predetermined route underneath the old mill, passing the run down school house now used for storage, then out into the night. The walls shook and the floors rattled. The wind blew cold and dark outside my window, and I shivered, though underneath my covers it was very warm.
I had a fascination with trains in my youth. A Thomas the Tank Engine shirt pops up in most home videos; I always felt connected due to my middle name. I remember the wooden Brio tracks and trains to which I created my own Union Pacific line stretching from Atlantic to Pacific. I have memories of hearing the same horn, no different, and running through the same little house into the kitchen, propping myself up on a stool and looking out through that small screen window, the train rumbling by.
Cleveland has somewhere between one hundred and two hundred people, and sits off interstate 94 some 25 miles from Jamestown. It is practically the geographic center of North Dakota, which means it is not surrounded by much. It's God's country, my dad would say, and I always think how painful the life of a rebellious teenager would be in this part of the world. A hundred years ago, the train and the town and the mill meant much more to Cleveland, at least in an economic sense, but the train still rattles by at all hours of the day and night and in all kinds of weather. I am happy for this, because it brings me back to a time when the details of a train, the number of cars, whether it had a caboose, were of equal importance to a job and a salary and a loan.
I laid awake for a little while after the train passed, listening to the cold prairie winds of fall that would soon carry the blinding snow of North Dakota winter. The last time I was here, my great grandmother was alive and approaching one hundred years old. People come and go, and that leaves a hole, a certain kind of emptiness, but I couldn't detect any of it there in her old room. I felt comfortable and safe in the darkness, thinking of trains and their ongoing significance, a past piece of tangible importance. Really, I think it is the consistency I long for when most things just seem up for grabs.
I had a fascination with trains in my youth. A Thomas the Tank Engine shirt pops up in most home videos; I always felt connected due to my middle name. I remember the wooden Brio tracks and trains to which I created my own Union Pacific line stretching from Atlantic to Pacific. I have memories of hearing the same horn, no different, and running through the same little house into the kitchen, propping myself up on a stool and looking out through that small screen window, the train rumbling by.
Cleveland has somewhere between one hundred and two hundred people, and sits off interstate 94 some 25 miles from Jamestown. It is practically the geographic center of North Dakota, which means it is not surrounded by much. It's God's country, my dad would say, and I always think how painful the life of a rebellious teenager would be in this part of the world. A hundred years ago, the train and the town and the mill meant much more to Cleveland, at least in an economic sense, but the train still rattles by at all hours of the day and night and in all kinds of weather. I am happy for this, because it brings me back to a time when the details of a train, the number of cars, whether it had a caboose, were of equal importance to a job and a salary and a loan.
I laid awake for a little while after the train passed, listening to the cold prairie winds of fall that would soon carry the blinding snow of North Dakota winter. The last time I was here, my great grandmother was alive and approaching one hundred years old. People come and go, and that leaves a hole, a certain kind of emptiness, but I couldn't detect any of it there in her old room. I felt comfortable and safe in the darkness, thinking of trains and their ongoing significance, a past piece of tangible importance. Really, I think it is the consistency I long for when most things just seem up for grabs.
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