#grandmothers - Hello Poetry

The Monster sits—bolts and plates, heavy on its tracks—“SP” tattooed across its face. Smoke puffs from its stacks stings my nose. We cling to Mother’s side, Brother and I, clutching our brown suitcases. A porter, sparkling with brass buttons, puts down a step box. Grandma presses sugar mints into my palm. Under her spell, I follow the wool scent of her coat as we board the beast. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more whistle, one more call, one more echo from the valley’s past. Inside the crowded car, I complain, “It smells like cigarettes!” The floor rumbles—to people’s chatter, I listen, down the aisle. Grandma finds us empty seats. I wish to say, Mister Conductor Sir, please click-punch my ticket, so I can wave goodbye. Two short whistles echo on Maclay Street. The hulk shudders once, twice, then rolls forward. With big tears, my Brother leans into Grandma. She says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more tear, one more goodbye, one more echo from the valley’s past. At the first crossing, the whistle blows: long–long–short–long. Bored-looking adults sit behind steering wheels, while excited kids smush their faces against the glass, or hang from windows, whoo-wooing and waving back. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more crossing, one more mile, one more echo from the valley’s past. Just outside town, our window turns pitch-black. My Brother holds his breath to avoid the deadly tunnel gas, his face reddening before daylight fills the windows at Saugus Station. Onward—we climb into smooth, sun-colored hills. Giants, I tell him, sleep beneath earth’s covers. He laughs, but his eyes stay big and wide, watching the hills as if they might awake. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more climb, one more ridge, one more echo from the valley’s past. Higher, we climb; the train chuffs through tunnel after tunnel, over trestles that sway, circling like a merry-go-round. The dining car’s special: bologna and mustard on white bread with lukewarm milk. I push it away—Grandma doesn’t mind. But I eat every bite of the apple pie—its sweetness helps me forget the bologna taste. I lick the crumbs from my sweater sleeves. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more sitting, one more taste, one more echo from the valley’s past. Down into the flat valley we went, rolling past brown fields with giant black grasshoppers, their longish heads see-sawing, and soon croplands in perfect rows: almond trees standing in formation; carrot fields neatly combed and parted. Like clockwork, the great wheels would clack and hiss—“Bakersfield, folks—next stop,” the conductor calls. Passengers grab suitcases; newcomers rush to fill the warm seats. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more rumble, one more buzz, one more echo from the valley’s past. Grandma digs in her purse, “Oh—almost forgot.” She presents us kids with a bag full of plastic men and wild creatures and a yo-yo. I toss the yo-yo straight down, snapping the string so it climbs without a wobble, just like the Duncan instructions say. The Conductor calls out the stops: “All aboard!” Delano, Pixley, Tulare Station. Blackbirds on fences become specks in the smoke trail. And Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, two more flag stops, one more station, one more echo from the valley’s past. Grandma points out Pixley Park. “Your dad carved your mom’s name on that Valley Oak”—but I’m too busy shouting orders to look. “Cowboys charge—army men, cover them with fire!” My Brother lines up dinosaurs and growls, “We’ll crush your bazookas and eat all your men too!” His T-Rex, giraffes, elephants, and gorillas knock down the cavalry’s advance and the battle is on. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more charge, one more battle, one more echo from the valley’s past. I don’t hear the Conductor announce the next stop, but in my heart, I know it’s Tulare—where I was born and where Grandma lives. Tulare comes out of the fog to show itself, the water tower floating in and out of sight—glimpses of the Tulare Theatre. I think I spot Ling Joe’s Café and Woolworth’s 5 and Dime. Brown-faced railroad men emerge from the iron gray. Grandma says, hammer hard, boys—keep that line alive, one more swing, one more try, secure that spike to the rail tie. I see the workers’ shacks—curtains waving as we go by. I wonder if the railroaders will retire the way my Ta-Ta Tony did—leftovers from the old days—like the bologna sandwiches they fed us on the last hurrah of the Southern Pacific, San Joaquin Daylight. Young men, old men dressed in denim shirts, looking up with blank stares—ants with hammers, making sure the trains don’t fall off the tracks. Grandma says, ride the line, boys—ride it while it lasts, one more whistle, one more blast, one more echo from the valley’s past. —•0•—

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Nov 24, 2025

Nov 24, 2025 at 3:22 PM UTC

david-anthony-carrillo

Last Hurrah of the Southern Pacific, March 16, 1971