There's really nothing like a day spent on the rails. A hobo gathering under a bridge is one thing, but a to see a throng of Train Men gathered near a roundhouse or movie-it-or-lose-it dredge encapsulates the feeling of brotherhood in this old vagrant's mind.
The wind in my hair, the sun at my back, fresh air in my lungs and my treasures in a knap-sack. Ah, yes, there's nothing like riding the rails.
The tattoos, the hand-signs, the language, the feeling of familiarity and family. Ah, yes, there's nothing like riding the rails.
The food, the fresh mountain water, the arid desert wind, the bubbling Tommo Gravy. Ah, yes, there's nothing like riding the rails.
The dank smell of a comfortable old box-car, the warmth, a hint of old grain and molasses Ah, yes, there's nothing like riding the rails.
A new bed every night, a new sunrise every morn'. Ah, yes, there's nothing like riding the rails.
To my Train Men brothers out there, I shall join you again soon--if only for a short visit. In the meantime, take this sentiment to heart:
Ah buckskin hard -t- ah malama day for the eighteenth double-toot pulling Aces all night long til the red red morning Sauce!
I have to think a few of you can understand such treasured old lingo!
To the rest of you, who prefer the warm familiariy of a common place over the rails....I understand, I really do. But this old soul is meant to fly in the steel bosom of an iron bird.
In solidarity,
Train Tom
