AT HOPE & MAIN: JACKSON TRAIN JOGS STORIES

After having taken at least 3,000 round excursions to Manhattan, it's no wonder trains have left an indelible mark in my memory.

It was the St. Louis Iron Mountain and Southern Railway that jogged my memory enough to repeat the tale of my first train ride. While we were sitting at the railroad crossing, waiting for the train to go by my son pointed out that one car said "New York Central" on it. I wondered if that were one of the cars that was used by the Long Island Rail Road in the mid-60's. It looked like it, and it may have been. Interesting that it might pop up in Jackson, some 35 years later.

Whether or not the cars are tangible artifacts of my childhood, I'll try to condense my memories of train rides, which span across a few decades.

It was early spring and the Easter Show at Radio City was going on in New York City. The winter doldrums had taken their toll upon us; hope for warm weather and sunny days seemed less and less possible as winter continued on. One gray day after another had left our family in need of a change of scenery.

My Mom woke me up, and after about two seconds I realized this was the day we were to ride the train. It felt like Christmas, and I was as uncontrollably happy as Scrooge in "A Christmas Carol" when he discovered it was still Christmas Day, after an entire night of dreaming.

"California Dreamin'" was all over AM radio, and it really set the stage. Just like the lyrics, the sky was gray. We hurriedly ate breakfast and boarded the Long Island Rail Road, bound for New York City. When the conductor came around, I just had to tell him it was my first train ride. He inquired about where we were going, and I assured him that regardless of the itinerary, the train ride was the best part. He smiled and took our tickets.

The lights began to flicker and then the power went out. This was the part of the trip when we went underground, through a tunnel that went under the East River and brought us up on the other side, miraculously in New York City. I didn't like it at all.

Years later when I began commuting to college in New York City, I still didn't like that part. It was at this time that I discovered train sleep. This is the best nap you have ever taken. It's usually preceded by reading or studying. One minute you're reading, then your eyes begin shutting, you stretch them open desperately in hopes of staying awake, but it's pointless. The train's rocking motion, back and forth, puts you in that dreamy stage and is much like being cradled to sleep. When the train stops, you wake up, fully rested and refreshed, ready to face the battle of overcrowded pedestrian situations. There are two times when train sleep is not beneficial. One is when you're going in the other direction, toward home, and you miss your stop. The other is when the person next to you falls asleep, is leaning on you, and quite possibly, begins to drool.

With years invested in riding the same train, (5:21) you begin to make train pals People you see everyday and exchange conversations with. There were a couple of different groups I became friendly with.

The first group was the party crowd. When the Long Island Rail Road banned smoking, it was still allowed in the bar car. I became friendly with fellow smokers. They loved a party, and we even had a pizza on the train once, in honor of someone's birthday.

Another group I sat with exchanged endless stories of children, grandchildren and the like. We even exchanged Christmas presents.

When I began working part time, the hours that I traveled were off peak, and although you could always get a seat -- an impossibility on most peak-hour trains -- the likelihood of train pals was virtually nonexistent. For a couple of years I rode in solitude.

When I stopped commuting and took a job elsewhere, the train still affected my life, rather shockingly and sadly, I might add.

I first heard the news report on television. There had been a shooting on the Long Island Rail Road. Some maniac actually shot and killed a few people, injuring others. It took place on the train I had ridden on for roughly a dozen years. The shocker would come a week later, sitting in church, and no Jim Gorycki sitting in the front pew with his daughter. There were no Goryckis there at all that day. The pain was too fresh, too new. During the worship service they announced that the church was starting a memorial for the family of Jim Gorycki. The pastor didn't rehash any details, thinking that everybody knew. When I first heard the news report, they weren't announcing names. In between that time I'd had a baby and got caught up, never making the connection until that very minute. I sat there in denial. Could this possibly be?

Like many things in life, the train now holds bittersweet memories. I thank God I was not that child who lost her father to a gunman on that fateful day.