SallyGanoJones

A memory of my Grandfather Gano is lingering in my mind. He stands on the platform of the railroad depot in the small Florida town still known today as Brooker, Florida.  It is his job to manage the incoming and outgoing trains for the Seaboard Coastline Railroad. I see his dark framed glasses. I see his sun-freckled wrinkles and the snowy white hair.

He is waiting for the next train to come. He pulls out the shiny chain of his gold railroad watch from the tiny pocket in his dark vest. His other hand clutches his belt while he is watching the time. 

Grandfather. Watching time. Waiting for the next train.

It wasn't long after that memory was etched in my little four-year-old mind, that Grandpa Gano was called home to heaven. The hospital doctors said that his heart stopped. I didn't understand why. My mind was preoccupied with the bright red blotches popping out everywhere from my tummy to my toes during his funeral. 

Those red blotches turned out to be what my newly widowed Grandmother Gano called "a blessing." She said taking care of me in the middle of a bad case of chickenpox was a "blessing in disguise." I didn't understand that either. However, I stayed there in the big Brooker farmhouse alone with grandmother for over a week after Grandpa went to heaven until I was well enough to travel and return home with my parents.

My mind vividly recalls only the image of Grandpa waiting for the train, looking down the track, and looking at the gold timepiece, expectant and patient. Now sixty plus years later, I can still see him standing on the platform of the Brooker Depot. 

A few months ago on a trip to Florida we drove through Brooker to reminisce and refresh our memories. Surprisingly, very little had changed from the way the small railroad depot looked in my memory. There I saw the remains of the property where the old Gano farmhouse once stood across from the depot. I recall that my grandparents' daily routine was dictated by the train schedule. 

As I write these recollections at six-thirty a.m. on a Sunday morning, I hear a train whistle blow in the distance. It's the familiar, oh so recognizable sound of a train coming through my little N. Mississippi town from somewhere else.

Momentarily, my memory is illuminated with understanding.  It's very clear and tears roll down my cheeks this Sunday morning. I understand what the vivid image is telling me. 

Grandpa wasn't waiting for the train.  Grandpa was waiting for The Train. He was waiting and watching for The Train that would ultimately escort him to his eternal home and his last "station." He was waiting and watching just as he had been trained to do all of his life. 

I can't help but think as the sun's rays sparkle through the soon-to-be leafless trees this October morning, that there will come a day my train will come for me just as it did for Grandpa. I know he had his ticket ready, and I know I have mine. 

We will meet at the Heavenly Station and the train will be on time.