I grew up in Northeast Minneapolis, Minnesota, a few blocks away from a major train line. In fact, Soo Line, now swallowed by the larger Canadian Pacific Railway, had a yard not a half mile from my front steps. Last I checked, this train yard is currently under development and has been sold off, no longer owned by the railroad.
I remember those nights when I was young. I would be laying in my bed, thinking of whatever I was thinking of, feeling the soft summer breeze come through the window of my bedroom, lightly flapping the curtains. Then, without fail, off in the distance, I would hear that mournful wail. It would start low and last a long time. Then, it would increase in volume and pitch. As the train came nearer to our house, the loud sounds of metal on metal would fill the neighborhood, the horn would let out one last distant wail and then break free of it's yonder bonds as the train crossed the bridge over my front street. The sound of the horn would wash over the whole house, shaking it to it's crumbling foundation. Then, the pitch would lower and continue on into the distance, leaving only the clackety-clack of the wheels to lull me to sleep.
At the ripe old age of nineteen, I moved out of that house and headed slightly north to Spring Lake Park, Minnesota. I lived there for a year and a half and never heard a train horn. I never slept well.
Then I moved to Winona, Minnesota which had a river track across the Mississippi waters over in Wisconsin. I began to sleep well again. I would head down to the river just to watch the train drive the miles of track between the bluffs and let the sound of its horn bring back the flood of memories in my head. I would imagine myself watching the threadbare blue curtains slowly moving toward me in my bed, lifted by the breeze of not the summer winds, but the traffic on Lowry Avenue, oddly heavy for that time of night.
After Winona, I moved to Rochester, Minnesota, and then Pine Island, Minnesota. I don't remember any trains and I didn't sleep well in those years.
Then, we bought a house in Pipestone, Minnesota where we lived for six years. This house was exactly two blocks from a major Burlington Northern Santa Fe train line where a train would pass every thirty-seven minutes. Over those six years, I regained my health and had the best sleep since my childhood.
We sold that house and moved into my brother's home for a year. No trains, no sleep. Then, we moved to Eden Prairie, Minnesota where the far off wail of the horn could be heard, twice nightly, across the great Minnesota River. My sleep began to improve.
Finally, we settled down in Farmington, Minnesota, three blocks from a track where trains are as common as butter on bread. My life is now perfect.
I can see the real estate agent now.
"So, I. C., what is most important to you for your next home purchase."
"The audible, close, mournful sound of a train horn."
They don't list that feature on the MLS listings.
I remember those nights when I was young. I would be laying in my bed, thinking of whatever I was thinking of, feeling the soft summer breeze come through the window of my bedroom, lightly flapping the curtains. Then, without fail, off in the distance, I would hear that mournful wail. It would start low and last a long time. Then, it would increase in volume and pitch. As the train came nearer to our house, the loud sounds of metal on metal would fill the neighborhood, the horn would let out one last distant wail and then break free of it's yonder bonds as the train crossed the bridge over my front street. The sound of the horn would wash over the whole house, shaking it to it's crumbling foundation. Then, the pitch would lower and continue on into the distance, leaving only the clackety-clack of the wheels to lull me to sleep.
At the ripe old age of nineteen, I moved out of that house and headed slightly north to Spring Lake Park, Minnesota. I lived there for a year and a half and never heard a train horn. I never slept well.
Then I moved to Winona, Minnesota which had a river track across the Mississippi waters over in Wisconsin. I began to sleep well again. I would head down to the river just to watch the train drive the miles of track between the bluffs and let the sound of its horn bring back the flood of memories in my head. I would imagine myself watching the threadbare blue curtains slowly moving toward me in my bed, lifted by the breeze of not the summer winds, but the traffic on Lowry Avenue, oddly heavy for that time of night.
After Winona, I moved to Rochester, Minnesota, and then Pine Island, Minnesota. I don't remember any trains and I didn't sleep well in those years.
Then, we bought a house in Pipestone, Minnesota where we lived for six years. This house was exactly two blocks from a major Burlington Northern Santa Fe train line where a train would pass every thirty-seven minutes. Over those six years, I regained my health and had the best sleep since my childhood.
We sold that house and moved into my brother's home for a year. No trains, no sleep. Then, we moved to Eden Prairie, Minnesota where the far off wail of the horn could be heard, twice nightly, across the great Minnesota River. My sleep began to improve.
Finally, we settled down in Farmington, Minnesota, three blocks from a track where trains are as common as butter on bread. My life is now perfect.
I can see the real estate agent now.
"So, I. C., what is most important to you for your next home purchase."
"The audible, close, mournful sound of a train horn."
They don't list that feature on the MLS listings.
