“Wow, Lala, a train!” my sister remarked almost breathlessly as we stepped out of the car this morning following a jaunt to Bean Traders and Harris Teeter.
“We haven’t heard that sound in the longest time!” she added. She was right.
I was transported to the lazy days of our youth. Frequently, my two sisters and I could be found sprawled out on reading mats in our sprawling back yard. Airplanes jetted across the sky, leaving white tracks that faded into nothingness before our tender, watchful eyes. And on the breeze, the melodic whistle of a freight train bore witness to its passing by the feed mill a couple miles down the road.
There’s not a cloud in the sky today, and the breeze must be just right for bringing to ear and to mind the memories of a simpler time. Some people look for the cure for nostalgia. That seems downright silly to me. Instead, I find it delightfully amazing that a mere sound can lap up the miles and chug through the hills and valleys of life to bring a memory to one’s doorstep.