We live in a "train" town, so our background music is the soothing rumble of the wheels and warning whistles as trains pass through the multitude of crossings. The sound of coming and going, past and future, hello and goodbye. Sounds that are like the knock of the woodpecker that you hear and feel to the marrow of your bones, but don't always, see.
There is no Thomas the Train on these tracks. These boys are loud. They are covered with the filth collected from the thousands of miles traveled so we can have our lumber, coal, and the containers shipped from factories on the other side of the world. The crimson rust is camouflaged by the masterpieces created by the underworld artists fueled by adrenalin and armed with propelled paint.
To a certain little boy, there is nothing more magical then a train (unless it is a helicopter, dump truck, or an airplane). When he hears the soft, distant call of the train riding in, he makes sure we all know what it is: "TWAIN!"
The benefit of living in a train town is you may just find a couple
of cars parked back on a forgotten piece of track.
The weathered and worn shells appear ready to swallow those longing to get a closer look, but without the powerful engine, they will carry no boys away on this day.
Today, they are gentile giants.
Peaceful partners in play.
Larger than life.