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Night Freight
Jan. 11th, 2010 03:09 amI used to hear the night freight, as it passed through the crossing gates in Erie, Pennsylvania, at 5:30 in the morning. "Whoo-woo, Woo-woo-wooo," it would say as it raced along the corridor between Syracuse, Buffalo, Erie, and Cleveland.
I'd been hearing that sound, at varying distances, ever since I was a kid. I was born within spitting distance of the bay on Lake Erie where Oliver Hazard Perry launched his Great Lakes fleet during the War of 1812, although by my time the bones of his flagship "Niagara" had mostly rotted into silt at the foot of State Street.
After WWII, my dad moved us to West 7th Street, a few blocks back from the lake and closer to the tracks which passed through town along West 12th. Later on, when I was seven and Dad's post-war career as an accountant allowed us to move to the new Baldwin Brothers development on East 35th, we might've felt like we were finally "on the right side of the tracks," as the saying went, but you could still hear that "Woo-woo, Woo-woo-woo," every night in the distance.
After college, my first wife and I moved out of state and away from the lake that gave our home town its name. We moved to the shore of a much smaller lake, named for one of the tribes of the Iroquois Confederacy, and the nights seemed inexplicably quieter. For a while, there was just the sound of the evening tide, pulling back from the breakwall and off the stony shore.
We didn't get back to Erie much - by that time I was marching to that other drummer they talk about - only that one horrible night in early December when my mother was killed in a car accident at the intersection near where my dad was working at the time. She'd driven there from their new place up on the hill where they'd built their dream house, away from the noise of the city and with a distant view of the lake.
Afterward, his heart gone out of him, he sold the place and moved back near the tracks, to a town called Lawrence Park where GE builds the locomotives that haul the heavy freight through eastern cities and haunt our loneliest nights with their call.
My wife and I moved too, away from our lake, into the city and, eventually, away from each other. But that part of it happened over time and likely started the day we first met. And we'd been apart for over thirty years by the time I went back to Erie to move Dad out of his apartment and into assisted living.
It was the morning after that move when I noticed the call of the night freight again. I'd stayed behind in the apartment to do some final cleaning and I'd slept on the floor because all the furniture was gone, some of it to my dad's new place and the rest to other folks who needed it, including the bedroom set that he and my mother had bought when they were first married. I slept on the floor and he slept in a brand new bed and, turning restlessly, we both heard it.
After that, I came back to Syracuse and stayed away again. I had a surgery to fix my back and resumed taking care of my grandson. I called my father occasionally but resisted going back until I was told, quite bluntly, that this was probably the end.
When I did go back, about two weeks before dad died, I stayed with my step-sister's daughter whose husband, coincidentally, had worked on GE's new Evolution engine at the plant in Lawrence Park. And yeah, you can hear the night freight down there. Besides the right-of-way that nominally follows the lake shore between Buffalo and Cleveland, there's the test bed where they run the new engines as they come off the assembly line at the plant.
I took my grandson with me so that he and my dad could see each other one last time and, before we left, my dad asked to shake his hand. As they did so, I noticed that from the window of dad's hospital room we could see the masts of Perry's "restored" flagship out on the bay.
So before we left for home, that Sunday morning, we parked at Dobbin's Landing at the foot of State Street and walked out onto the pier. I'd hoped we could get into the maritime museum that's part of the new bayfront library but it wasn't opening for a couple of hours and neither of us wanted to wait.
I guess we're alike that way, the little boy and me. When the road's out there waiting, you just want to get on it. Maybe next time, I told him, but now that my dad is gone it's unlikely we'll be back there anytime soon. We did make it back for the funeral but who knows when we'll be there again.
This morning, my son had to be at work at 3 A.M. The moving company he works for was sending a crew to New York City so they needed an early start. He's supposed to be buying my dad's car, but the title hasn't been transferred yet so I had to drive him.
The rail yard in East Syracuse is fairly close to us and the tracks run behind the moving company warehouse. It was about 2:55 AM when I dropped my son off and, as I made the turn to come back home, I heard it. "Woo-woo, Woo-woo-woo."
I figure it should be passing through Erie right about 5:30...
LPK
LiveJournal
1.11.2010
I'd been hearing that sound, at varying distances, ever since I was a kid. I was born within spitting distance of the bay on Lake Erie where Oliver Hazard Perry launched his Great Lakes fleet during the War of 1812, although by my time the bones of his flagship "Niagara" had mostly rotted into silt at the foot of State Street.
After WWII, my dad moved us to West 7th Street, a few blocks back from the lake and closer to the tracks which passed through town along West 12th. Later on, when I was seven and Dad's post-war career as an accountant allowed us to move to the new Baldwin Brothers development on East 35th, we might've felt like we were finally "on the right side of the tracks," as the saying went, but you could still hear that "Woo-woo, Woo-woo-woo," every night in the distance.
After college, my first wife and I moved out of state and away from the lake that gave our home town its name. We moved to the shore of a much smaller lake, named for one of the tribes of the Iroquois Confederacy, and the nights seemed inexplicably quieter. For a while, there was just the sound of the evening tide, pulling back from the breakwall and off the stony shore.
We didn't get back to Erie much - by that time I was marching to that other drummer they talk about - only that one horrible night in early December when my mother was killed in a car accident at the intersection near where my dad was working at the time. She'd driven there from their new place up on the hill where they'd built their dream house, away from the noise of the city and with a distant view of the lake.
Afterward, his heart gone out of him, he sold the place and moved back near the tracks, to a town called Lawrence Park where GE builds the locomotives that haul the heavy freight through eastern cities and haunt our loneliest nights with their call.
My wife and I moved too, away from our lake, into the city and, eventually, away from each other. But that part of it happened over time and likely started the day we first met. And we'd been apart for over thirty years by the time I went back to Erie to move Dad out of his apartment and into assisted living.
It was the morning after that move when I noticed the call of the night freight again. I'd stayed behind in the apartment to do some final cleaning and I'd slept on the floor because all the furniture was gone, some of it to my dad's new place and the rest to other folks who needed it, including the bedroom set that he and my mother had bought when they were first married. I slept on the floor and he slept in a brand new bed and, turning restlessly, we both heard it.
After that, I came back to Syracuse and stayed away again. I had a surgery to fix my back and resumed taking care of my grandson. I called my father occasionally but resisted going back until I was told, quite bluntly, that this was probably the end.
When I did go back, about two weeks before dad died, I stayed with my step-sister's daughter whose husband, coincidentally, had worked on GE's new Evolution engine at the plant in Lawrence Park. And yeah, you can hear the night freight down there. Besides the right-of-way that nominally follows the lake shore between Buffalo and Cleveland, there's the test bed where they run the new engines as they come off the assembly line at the plant.
I took my grandson with me so that he and my dad could see each other one last time and, before we left, my dad asked to shake his hand. As they did so, I noticed that from the window of dad's hospital room we could see the masts of Perry's "restored" flagship out on the bay.
So before we left for home, that Sunday morning, we parked at Dobbin's Landing at the foot of State Street and walked out onto the pier. I'd hoped we could get into the maritime museum that's part of the new bayfront library but it wasn't opening for a couple of hours and neither of us wanted to wait.
I guess we're alike that way, the little boy and me. When the road's out there waiting, you just want to get on it. Maybe next time, I told him, but now that my dad is gone it's unlikely we'll be back there anytime soon. We did make it back for the funeral but who knows when we'll be there again.
This morning, my son had to be at work at 3 A.M. The moving company he works for was sending a crew to New York City so they needed an early start. He's supposed to be buying my dad's car, but the title hasn't been transferred yet so I had to drive him.
The rail yard in East Syracuse is fairly close to us and the tracks run behind the moving company warehouse. It was about 2:55 AM when I dropped my son off and, as I made the turn to come back home, I heard it. "Woo-woo, Woo-woo-woo."
I figure it should be passing through Erie right about 5:30...
LPK
LiveJournal
1.11.2010
