go.Jimmy.go

I was driving through South Side Easton this morning when my route carried me into the little borough of Glendon. The road twisted alongside a set of railroad tracks before climbing onto the Glendon Bridge. As I crossed, I happened to glance over the railing.

Below me, a freight train rolled steadily through town. Silver cars stretching as far as I could see, each one identical to the last, carrying its cargo toward destinations I’d never know.

Normally, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Like most people, I’ve grown accustomed to trains. If anything, they’re usually just an inconvenience—something that delays you for a few minutes while you wait at a crossing, checking your phone and wondering when the last car will finally pass.

But this morning was different. Seeing that train instantly transported me back more than fifty years, to a time when trains weren’t an inconvenience at all.

They were magic.

So if you’ll indulge a middle-aged man for a few minutes while he reminisces, I’d like to tell you about them.

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Growing up in Easton during the 1970s and early ’80s, trains were everywhere.

You couldn’t drive down Smith Street Hill from Southside to downtown without seeing them rumbling overhead. From my bedroom window, I could watch another line crossing the river into New Jersey. If I heard the distant whistle echo through the neighborhood, I’d abandon whatever I was doing and sprint downstairs to catch a glimpse before they disappeared.

From that distance, they looked no bigger than Hot Wheels cars, but it didn’t matter. I’d stand there and watch every single one pass.

And when the little blue caboose finally came into view, I always felt a twinge of disappointment. The show was over. It was time to head back inside and return to Scooby-Doo, Chutes and Ladders, or whatever else had been keeping me busy before the whistle called me away.

But my favorite place wasn’t watching them from home. It was Canal Street.

Whenever my parents and I were driving home in our 1977 Chevy Malibu Classic, I’d begin my whining campaign from the back seat:

“Mom… Dad… pleeeease… can we go see the trains?”

There was a fork in the road beneath the railroad trestle.

Go straight, and we’d head home.

Bear right, and we’d follow Canal Street — where the trains were.

On especially good days—or when my relentless pleading finally wore my parents down—we’d make that right turn.

I can still remember the excitement. The tracks ran beside the road at eye level before gradually climbing onto the bridge ahead. As they rose higher, another set of tracks slowly appeared behind them, almost like a stage curtain opening before the biggest reveal imaginable. Rows upon rows of bright-colored freight cars.

To most people, they were simply boxcars waiting to haul cargo across the country. To me, they were masterpieces.

I wasn’t interested in the flatbeds or the tank cars. I loved the colorful boxcars. Bright yellow Railbox cars. Deep red Conrail cars with the bold white “CR.” Southern Railway cars proudly declaring, Southern Serves the South. Blue cars with mysterious logos I never understood.

Some wore fresh paint. Others were covered in graffiti proclaiming someone’s devotion to AC/DC or Led Zeppelin.

Every one of them seemed unique. Every one of them had a story.

It’s funny. These days I occasionally forget to take out the trash, yet I can still remember the logos painted on freight cars I haven’t seen in fifty years. Memory works in strange ways.

Eventually, we’d pass the train yard, turn onto a side street, and head home.

I honestly couldn’t tell you what happened after that. I don’t remember what we had for dinner. I don’t remember what episode of Ultraman I watched that afternoon.

But what I do remember….are the trains.

As the years passed, adulthood quietly crept in.

Girls. Cars. Music. Jobs. Life.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking to see the trains. Even after I got my driver’s license, I rarely drove Canal Street. There simply wasn’t any reason to go. Ironically, that’s probably exactly what my parents had been thinking all those years while I begged them to make that little detour.

Today, when I occasionally find myself driving that way, the tracks are empty. The colorful rows of boxcars are gone. The place that once felt larger than life now sits strangely quiet.

Maybe that’s progress, or maybe it’s just time.

Driving on that bridge this morning, watching another freight train disappear into the distance, I realized something. It wasn’t really the trains I missed. It was what they represented. Wonder. Curiosity. The excitement of discovering beauty in something most people never notice.

As children, we’re remarkably good at finding joy in ordinary things. Somewhere along the road to adulthood, many of us lose that gift.

Maybe that’s why this morning’s train meant so much. It reminded me that life isn’t made up only of the big milestones. Sometimes it’s the small detours, the unexpected memories, and the simple things that stop us in our tracks.

So if there’s something that once made you smile—a place, a tradition, or even an old freight train rumbling through town—I hope you make time to go find it again.

You never know when today’s ordinary moment will become tomorrow’s favorite memory.

*****

My new novel, “The Seventh Echo,” arrives August 18th. You can find out more about the book on my Author Facebook Page.