When I stop for a train at an in-town Savannah RR crossing near our home, I see those lovely old boxcars with their faded painted lettering, those flat cars and those fat round tankers all lined up slowly rolling by, and I get quiet inside. I get what other men get from other things. I just feel better like I was when I was 8 or 9 year old with not a care in the world by the tracks with pennies for flattening on the rails by a slowly passing freight train.

As a kid, I never idly sat about sipping at my Coke and waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t going to happen. So, off I went with a pocketful of pennies to the train tracks.

It’s good to feel that good whenever you can, never needing a reason.

Back then I was never like the roses that did not bother to bloom when they should have. If the sun failed to rise, I became disgusted waiting for it and made other plans to bloom. My grade school nuns didn’t understand and thus some feared me. Others, lay teachers mostly, saw that something inside me that said, “roll the dice” and cultivated it. There was no lie in my fire. I owe them still.

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