Tracks of Life

As of yesterday, I can admit that the thought of train tracks rarely crossed my mind, but a sudden urge to walk the trestles and tie rods recently overtook my thoughts. This urge hit during the cold winds of early March, and I bided time until warmer weather arrived.

Yesterday, restless from staying contained inside for a few days due to personal choice, my husband I, along with the dog, traveled to the outskirts of our town, where the tracks wind along the countryside.

Once part of the railroad system, the tracks were integral in shipping tools out of the factory here, crossing populated neighborhoods to get to the factory, which was in the heart of the borough.

Technology and times changed the delivery port, and the tracks were eventually removed from the downtown streets. The outer tracks remain as a framework of local history, meandering on the town's outskirts to a second factory.

Climbing the small hill to reach the tracks tells a story in itself: coal of assorted sizes, once cargo from the train over the decades, glitter along the well-worn path amid weeds, brush and broken glass. I wonder how many feet have trod before us, and what age those feet must have been.

In order to step on the rails, we scale small banks of loose, golf ball-sized rough cut quartz rock gravel. Using the rods as stepping stones, we begin walking, chatting about everything or nothing.

My husband, who has battled some personal demons during his life, is fittingly wearing a shirt that reads "Survivor." I am thinking of so many train track analogies comparable to his testimony that I am stopping frequently to take pictures of the track itself, and of him in particular.

The shirt is fitting for this trip.