In
my present employment, I have the dubious opportunity to hear canned music for
much of my workday. Most of this stuff
simply goes in one ear and then promptly out the other, but occasionally a line
of lyrics becomes lodged in my mind. One
such verse is, “Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight.”[1]
Hearing this line repeatedly leads to
memorizing it, but more significantly, it sets a train of thought in motion.
Many
times in the last several years have I taken “the last train home tonight.” This last train left Boston South Station at
9:30pm every evening, made most of the stops along the way, and arrived in New
York Penn Station at 2:30am. I rode this
train several times each year when I returned to my childhood home to visit and
check up on my aging parents. After a long
and busy workday, I rode the Boston Express bus into South Station and then got
on the train, and this schedule worked out quite well. The bus was always a great soporific. When it left Nashua, I fell asleep, but I always
woke up just in time as it neared South Station. The Amtrak train was even more
comfortable. I slept most of the way to
New York, but I always awakened briefly at key points along the Shore Line that
brought back memories for me.
The
first of these spots was along the shore of Narragansett Bay in Rhode
Island. As the train rushed along, I sleepily
glanced out the window at the black sky and blacker water and momentarily
remembered sailing on this great bay aboard the tugboat Charger as she hauled the gasoline barge Interstate 35 toward Providence.
Then I went back to sleep.
The
second wake-up took place as the train stopped in New London, Connecticut. Once again gazing sleepily out the window, I
noticed most of the Cross Sound Ferry fleet tied up for the night at the floodlit
piers. The larger vessels John H
and Cape Henlopen always stood out because
of their size, but after a moment the Susan
Anne and the Mary Ellen and
others came into view as well. As the
train loaded and discharged passengers, I recalled the many voyages the family
had made aboard these vessels when driving between New Hampshire and Long
Island. Then, with my mind comfortably
at sea, I went back to sleep as the train eased away from the station.
The
third seaside wake-up spot was in Bridgeport, Connecticut, and this one was
always very brief. Following the station
stop, the train rolled past the dock used by the Bridgeport and Port Jefferson ferry. Often one of this line’s three ships was
spending the night there. I usually woke
up slightly for a moment, just long enough to peer out the window and maybe see
the Grand Republic or the Park City and recall the occasional voyages
I had made on this mid-Sound route. Then
I quickly fell asleep again.
At
last, after a quiet and restful journey, the train reached the Hell Gate Bridge
in New York. Wide awake at this point
and getting ready to disembark, I took in the grand view of the East River from
this landmark span. To the west the
water led to the skyscrapers of Manhattan; to the east it wended its way toward
Fort Schuyler and beyond into Long Island Sound. I remembered that I had sailed this route numerous
times aboard the Charger-Interstate 35
combination many years ago Next, and it
always seemed too soon, the train pulled into the subterranean caverns of the Pennsylvania
Station, and the peaceful and pleasant nocturnal railroad voyage ended.
Penn
Station at 2:30 in the morning was everything the ride along the Shore Line was
not. Incessantly crowded and noisy, hot
and humid in summer, cold and raw in winter, it always proved that New York
really is the city that never sleeps, although a few passengers, myself included,
sometimes dozed off between trains. Fortunately,
the wait for the Long Island train was never very long. After an anticlimactic ride to Mineola, I usually
disembarked amid a horde of late night party-goers. Separating myself from this crowd and threading
my way through the labyrinth of modern high-rises and parking garages that now comprise
downtown suburban Mineola, I made the ten-minute walk to the old family home and
usually arrived about 4:00am. The
odyssey of “the last train home tonight” was then concluded.
I
always entered the house as quietly as possible through the garage and
kitchen. If the dog didn’t wake up and
raise a rumpus, I went back to sleep for a while in the family room. Eventually the dog always did wake up,
though, and then my father, hearing the commotion, came out to investigate and then
discovered me. Usually, he had forgotten
that I was coming. Later, about 7:00am,
my mother would wake up. Mom never
forgot that I was coming, and she was always elated to see her vagabond son
again. It was a happy way to start her
day, and her enthusiasm always made the nighttime traveling worthwhile.
Typically,
a visit of two or three days’ duration followed my early morning arrival. These were always pleasant occasions. With both my parents in their nineties,
however, we all knew that their meters were ticking, counting down the limited
time they had left. When my visit with
them ended, I usually took an afternoon train back to Boston. The next day, I went back to work.
My
last journey aboard the last train took place on the night of Tuesday, October 31,
and Wednesday, November 1, 2017. I arrived
promptly on Mom’s 99th birthday. My son Michael arrived by air from Europe for
the occasion, too. That was a very
special day for Mom, truly a very happy last birthday for her. Now, with her gone, the house sold, and my
father in assisted living, it’s doubtful that I’ll ever take “the last train
home tonight” again. These journeys are
now memories, as were the shipboard voyages that I always recalled while on the
train.
The
highlight of these railroad journeys, whether made by day or night, was always
the sight of the sea and the vessels that plied it. My voyages aboard ship, first as an employee and
later as a passenger with my family, were important events. Now they are important and precious memories. Likewise, the memories of family gatherings,
special family occasions, and deceased family members are important and
precious, too. While we cannot repeat
the past, we can relive it in memory and share the happiness we find there with
others. As the scriptures counsel us:
Remember the days of
old, consider the years of many generations:
ask thy father, and he
will shew thee; thy elders, and they will tell
thee (Deut. 32:7).
But
simply remembering and hearing oral histories often prove insufficient in the
long term. Thus we have the more recent
scriptural injunction to “continue writing and making a history of all the
important things” (D&C 69:2). Since
going to sea was—and still is—very important to me, I took both notes and
pictures along the way. Now I’m glad I
did.
There
is so much here to be thankful for: the memories of shipboard voyages and
families, the writing and photographs that preserve them, and a random line of
canned music that releases a flood tide of these magnificent memories.
