THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER #2
Fact of the matter? I didn't really
say that about being eight years
old because I was out cold. And
I didn't wake for a number of
months [here delete one 'm' from
comma, because it's called a 'coma'].
Goodbye cruel world and all of that.
The big white house that used to be
Avenel Coal and Oil, the Prohotka
family, I think it was, that big old
house never blinked, but it was the
last real thing I remembered before
greeting the train.
-
All those cars, I bet, were lined up
to watch - the snow-blizzard night
scene lives in memory. Not mine,
of course, but others used to talk
about 'Oh, that night! The weather
was terrible. What were you even
doing out in that?' I can tell you.
-
It wasn't night, exactly; it was more
like 4:30 pm maybe, of a very snowy,
wintry, late February day. The trick
was, I had been to piano lessons,
(weekly) to Miss Frank's house,
where she lived with her mother,
at the far end of Claire Avenue,
out to the Turnpike end, back then.
My own mother came to pick me
up when the lesson was over. She
wasn't much of a driver to begin
with, and that old beater she drove,
usually up to most any task, this
time wasn't up to snuff with her
behind the wheel. We slid instead
of stopping, at the grade-level
crossing, and right into the path
of the oncoming freight train. I
can still hear that horn, blaring
like a roaring lion in the near
distance, as we met. The resounding
smack of steel, metal, and glass
was the equivalent, to my little
ears, of what today would be
called 'junk-band' music. (Look
it up, it's a genre of musical
noise. Even has its own stars,
not like the kind I saw, but
stars nonetheless).
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