The Train Whistle. Writing Prompt Week 1

When I hear the sound of the train whistle, I think of home. Not home as in my house.  Sadly, my current house is empty now and nothing but a series of four walls, failed do-it-yourself renovations, a daily reminder of poor decisions, and an insurmountable need for a contractor. The train whistle reminds me of the home that belonged to my grandmother-one of the very few people that loved me unconditionally.

I can almost see the kitchen, tiny with painted over cabinets that had ridges here and there from the chipped paint of the last color-no one thought about sanding. As a child, I personally helped paint this kitchen every year or so when my grandmother needed a change of pace. I'm pretty sure it saw every color of the rainbow.  There was a small table meant for four, but six were sometimes seated.  I think of the worn shag carpeting in the living room and down the hall. It was in shades of orange and red and faded yellow. Oh, and lest I forget the floral couches, huge lamps and wooden tables that I proudly dusted with lemon pledge. I remember the wood paneling on the walls of one of the tiny bedrooms and the closet that connected the bedrooms together. I remember the wall in the living room that housed the photos of the immediate family-8x10s even!  Try as I might,  I can't remember what picture she hung of me, I just knew I was there, represented, considered, important.  

The sounds of the train make me think of that neighborhood. I didn't realize how rare it was at the time. The block was a lesson in multi-culturalism without even trying to be. Clearly I could see that the people in the neighborhood were of different races- White, Black, Mexican. That was just a fact, not an issue. We often played (and got in trouble) with the kids that lived across the street and the grandchildren of the neighbors. We would explore freely,  walking to the park a few blocks away, down by the river, and even boldly to the gas station that was outside of the "zone" we were supposed to be restricted to. None of us were going to tell-that's where the good freeze pops were. It's funny now looking back. All of the parents and grandparents KNEW the gas station right up the street didn't sell popsicles, but said nothing when we arrived home with red, orange, green or purple lips and tongues. 

Grandma's gone now, she's been gone longer than I had her on earth. That house has long been sold and renovated to an unrecognizable state. Most of the neighbors moved to bigger and better. Many have passed away. From time to time I run into someone from the neighborhood and we're instantly taken back to childhood and the fond memories of the people that shaped our lives as we grew up next to the train tracks.