The Train Whistle
My dad was born on a rural
Saskatchewan farm in 1922. His
father believed in the “rule by the back of my hand” method of discipline. My father was often the recipient of
the wrath of my grandfather, ne’er to receive a tender touch from the bitter
old man. As a child growing up on
the farm during the depression, my father learned quickly how to evade both the
belt and the hand. He remembers
clearly taking the blame for a pair of muddy shoes. His 6 year old little sister had worn them home from school
that day and stomped through a mud puddle. This would be a clear sign that you did not respect your
clothing and would certainly result in a willow across the backside. After the old man taught him to
“respect his clothing”, my father ran down the field until the tears stopped
running down his cheeks. He
eventually found himself at the railroad track. He knelt and prayed that God would send a train to take him
away. Each day, as soon as he
could get away, he would run to the tracks with the same prayer. Each night while laying in bed he could
hear the old steam engine chugging up the hill and the mournful sound of the
whistle echo through the river valley. He dreamed of all the wonderful places he would
go and the people he would meet.
This got my dad through his childhood.
At 21 years old, my dad got his
first “real job”. As a
Saskatchewan farm boy, he had arms the size of tree trunks having hoisted
thousands of bails of hay. He was
hired to shovel coal into the steam engine. He had a job, on the train. This led to a 45 year long career working on trains.
As a little girl, I thought that
all children rode trains on the weekends.
As a train engineer you work whenever you are called. This led to my dad heading for work at
all hours of the day and night.
This often led to bedtime without my dad there to give me kisses. I complained loudly which led to him
giving me a kiss each day before he left for work, no matter the time of day or
night. As I grew to be a teenager,
I thought the late night kisses would stop. When I was especially poorly behaved, I didn’t expect him to
kiss me, but he did. Once I moved
away to University, again I thought the kisses would stop, but he continued to
come into my room and kiss my cheek.
Even if I were awake, I would lay perfectly still, because I was scared
that if he knew that I was awake, it would break the magic spell. I would no longer be his little girl
and he would no longer be my daddy.
Having a dad as an engineer had its
benefits. I got to ride on the
engine and pull the rope that blew the whistle. I can still clearly remember the wheat fields waving in the
distance through the open window, the smell of ripe canola filling the air, the
sound of the steel moving along the tracks. My dad and his friends laughter filling the air and tell
tall tales about the “good old days”.
I remember sitting on my dad’s knee and smelling diesel on the collar of
his shirt.
Eventually, I was too old to sit on
his knee and he was too old to drive a train. Dad retired from the CN, from the train that had indeed
taken him away.
In 2004 at 82 ears of age, my dad
was laid to rest in a cemetery at the far end of the city, on the other side of
the highway, right beside the railroad track. The same track that ran passed the farm where he grew up and
the same track he worked on for all those years. As we were saying goodbye, some young engineman who knew my
dad, “borrowed” a locomotive engine and brought it down to the closest point
near the place were my father was being interred. As the Priest said the final Amen, twenty-one whistles
echoed through the crisp morning air.
“Goooooood – Byeeeeeee….. Gooooooooood - Byeeeeeeeeee”
Even now, the sound of the train
approaching and the unmistakable sound of the train whistle reminds me of the
sacrifice, love and stolen midnight kisses of a father and his little
girl.
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