Play a Train Song!

One of my favorite artists has this great story about this old guy who used to sit in the audience heckling bands for a train song. Ol' Skip would sit in a haze of Southern Comfort and smoke, yelling, "Play a train song!" Apparently, any band who's anybody knows a train song. Trains have always been a definitive reminder of who my dad was. Today I’m sharing my experience of going to visit my dad’s grave for the first time since I stood at it holding my mother's hand as a 4-year old. This is not so much sad as it is a collection of thoughts that remain with me as I exit the experience. Without further adieu, here is my poignant experience from this summer.

Today was historic for me. I know it won’t seem like it to most people, but today was a day I’ve waited for 35 years. I visited my dad today. His name was Thomas, called Tom by most. He died exactly 3 weeks before my 5^th birthday and one week after his 28th birthday. And my mom tells me the start of kindergarten and a birthday just before that kept the absence of my father from being a big deal to my childish brain. It’s funny. I have a handful of memories of my dad…and not one of them is a bad memory. He was a fun guy, though not around a lot. He worked hard, and I believe he played hard too. That dieselly smell from trains always reminds me of how he smelled when he came home from his day down at the roundhouse being a mechanic on trains. While most people complain because they have to wait for a train, I savor the moment, revelling in the clickety-clack of the cars on the track. It is my reminder from my dad that we should all slow down and smell the roses (or the diesel, for me)!

Sometimes he’d come home in the middle of the night still dressed in his train mechanic’s clothes, a little tipsy, and he’d call up the stairs for me and my brother to come down. He’d brought us ice cream!! Joy! I’m sure my mom gave him hell for that, but he’d insist on waking us up. And hey, what was the harm, we weren’t in school yet. ;) I can also remember a few times going down to the roundhouse with my mom. When we arrived and the door swung open to go in, I’d dash in ahead of my mom, see my big strong daddy, and run unabashed up to him. He always received me with open arms and swung me up for a hug. I have a vague recollection of my dad grinning broadly and the other guys smiling happily.

Good memories. Every last memory of my dad is a good one. I suppose that is the gift a daughter inherits in return for the heartbreak of not having that dad to chase off bad boys, ground her for coming home late, walk her down the aisle... And the memories are vivid. I’m thankful for the recollections. My older brother died 8 years after my father, and my younger brother was only 4 months old when his dad left this world. My mom doesn’t talk about him, so all I have is what is in my head. Yeah, I’m grateful.

I’ve wanted to visit my dad’s grave for a very long time. I asked my mother quite awhile ago where the cemetery was. I looked for it, thought I’d found it, and hunted the whole cemetery down only to be disappointed by the lack of a grave with my father’s name on it. Years passed with the thought still in my mind. My mom is funny about some stuff though, and talking about my dad has never been an open forum, so asking again was a precarious proposition. Sure, I wanted to see it, visit it, memorialize him, but I’m also very sure that we don’t need a public marker to visit in order to honor dads or brothers, moms or friends. I’m a believer in the everyday signs those who pass can and do give us to let us know they see what we are doing.

A case in point is about five years ago when I’d gone to see John Edwards (the famous psychic who connects with loved ones from the other side…and what he does is real folks—I shit you not). Anyway, I didn’t get a reading, but I know the reason I didn’t is because I’m not the kind of person who needs a reading to connect with loved ones on the other side, and there were many more needy people there than I. I was okay with the experience because it really is magical to witness the messages sent to people. On my way home, I had a great message from my dad anyway! Driving along the interstate well into the night, some radio call-in show had a guy raving about his daughters, “Blah, blah, blah…but I love them so much, and they are my whole world. So many people take so much for granted, so can you play a song for my beautiful daughters?” As the Joe Cocker song, “You Are So Beautiful” began to play, my one true sign as an enlightened adult who is aware of signs made a brilliant entrance. A shooting star so long and bright you couldn’t miss it shot across the black sky. I was moved to tears to hear that song and realize the shooting star came at that exact moment.

As I drove on, I began to question the meaning. I berated myself for believing in such coincidental things. I thought a long time on that star and that song. I said aloud, “If that is real, give me another sign so I know it’s you.” (I am a skeptic by nature, I guess). I drove silently, wondering about the validity, knowing there wouldn’t be another sign in the last hour and a half of my drive. Sheesh! What I’d forgotten was that there was a train track in a tiny town I had to travel through. By the time I’d arrived at the track, I was beyond tired, focusing furiously on the road ahead of me, and I’d forgotten the demand for proof of my father’s presence. When I crossed the track, something grabbed my attention and I looked to my left. A train sat unmoving not 50 yards down the track with its light beaming. There was an overpowering smell of diesel as though that train had been idling there for some time. What is so strange is that after so many miles of sleepy travel, that should have jolted me, but it didn’t. I looked calmly at the huge engine idling there so close to me, then realized my request had easily been handled. Guffaw one silly shooting star away, but not a train waiting for me in the middle of the night. Trains have always been a nudge from my dad. Nope, those were signs, sure as I’m sitting here.

END PART I

It was strange how I found out where my dad’s grave was. My friend whose boyfriend just died is buried in the same cemetery. Easy as pie, in relating my funeral trip to my mom, she said, “Oh, that’s where your dad is buried.” WHAT? I cannot believe I was there, and I didn’t know this information. Still, I had the information now! And, as luck would have it, I had another trip to Madison planned.

When the day arrived, my friend and I traveled to the cemetery separately since I was heading out of town right afterwards. We called it our trip to visit the Tom’s. (Her boyfriend was also named Tom). I was listening to a rock station on the way out, but they were playing crap, so I put it on an oldies station that always plays good stuff. There were a bunch of commercials, and it must have been divine intervention that kept me from changing the station in my impatience for good music. When the station resumed songs, it played a song that was special to my friend’s boyfriend who died. After that song ended and we were nearing the cemetery, a slow song started. When I realized it was Joe Cocker singing “You Are So Beautiful” I knew without question that my dad knew I was on my way. (Remember the message song from years before?) I fumbled around the car for the “Dad” wreath I’d bought just so I could hear the end of the song. After it ended, I got out and walked to Sandy and told her what had just happened. She held out her arms and exclaimed, "I have goosebumps!!"

Sandy sat at her Tom’s grave, and I wandered off toward where my mom told me my dad’s grave was. I was still wandering in the general vicinity when Sandy sauntered over to help look. The cemetery must direct people to the flat in-the-ground type of memorials because it is almost exclusively those kinds of headstones (most are metal, actually).

I had noticed in the course of my grave-gazing that many of these markers were very generic, and it made me sad to see these stark remembrances of a person’s life. It got me sort of depressed to see my dad’s bare memorial. We found his parents’ graves first, which are near, but not right next to his. I was glad to see they had a marker that was one for both of them. It held each of their names and a ribbon with flowers between them that read, “Together Forever.” It was nice. I was still anxious to find my dad’s though. I knew we were close to it, but Sandy went into the administration building to ask for a map. She came out and told me we were close to it; the lady at the desk told her it was very close to the building where we’d been looking.

Once again, it was Sandy who found our treasure. She yelled over to me, “Hey, I found it. It’s over here.” I turned to where she was, kind of excitedly, but also sort of apprehensively. Could I handle the loneliness of an old metal plaque with simply my father’s name, birth, and death on it?

As I neared her, she looked at me quizzically and asked, “Was he a train dude?” YESSSSS!!!! My spirit lifted right then and there. When I approached the site, I looked down at a beautiful dual toned metal marker that had not only my dad’s name, birth year, and death year, but also a train plaque embedded at the bottom, and entwined roses on the top curved corners. Whew. It was lovely. It had personality. I was touched that his grave showed some of who he was in this world. And since it was the second grave directly in front of the administration building, it was perhaps seen a bit more than others.

I set to work immediately putting the daisy wreath in place. I brushed off the freshly-mowed grass clippings from his marker, pulled the longer grass that crept over the sides out of reach of the mower blades that had so recently passed over it. I chatted with Sandy about my father’s passion for trains. He’d converted our very large basement into an incredible train village. Our entire basement had plywood to raise it up and create his expansive villages for his trains. It was elaborate in ways I cannot describe, but he powered the trains from a port in the very middle that held all of his controls.

Anyway, Sandy took her leave and I sat and pondered the life of the man whose name stared back at me. I thought about why he wasn’t here, and how much I’d missed not having my dad growing up. I got very sad. I got very proud. I wondered why I’d chosen to keep my married name after my divorce because I liked the sound of my ex-husband’s last name better than my dad’s. Suddenly, I wanted my father’s name back. His blood runs in my veins, and I’m sure I have traits that he had. I just don’t know which ones because I was too young to discern our similarities. I realized in those moments at my father’s grave, that I have loved my dad more than I’ve ever realized. I think I’ve squashed those feelings because I couldn’t have him here physically, but I love him, miss him, wish he’d been here so much longer than he was.

Something powerful moved me to trace my finger over the upraised letters of his name. I traced slowly. Great emotion bubbled up as I honored a man I hadn’t truly memorialized since his death. I became aware in that moment, for the first time, that I have a dad. Dad was only part of my vocabulary in a very distant way. My friends had dads, not me. It’s difficult to explain the clarity that being there brought me. I have a dad. It was the first time since I was a tiny 4-year old, that I felt sure and comforted that my dad is by my side, watching over me. I’m proud of who he was, even though I know he wasn’t perfect. In fact, his irresponsible behavior is probably what killed him. He fell asleep in a running car in our garage, and my mom found him in the morning poisoned by carbon monoxide. I don't think it was suicide as his death certificate states; I think it was poor judgment, tiredness, drunkenness. Did he overdo a belated birthday celebration with coworkers? Whatever put him in such a depleted state of mind, it was an unlucky twist of fate that cost him dearly. But then, I believe when it’s time, it’s time. Nothing was going to change that.

I thought about a lot of things as I hunched over his grave under a fully blossoming, brilliant white crab tree that day last week. I kept touching the metal, swiping at stray pieces of grass caught in the letters and numbers. I shook my head and laughed a little, asking him why he’d done that. I told him I missed him terribly growing up without him. I told him I was proud of him, and hoped that he was proud of me. And of course, I told him I was sorry it took me so long to get there. I think he understood. Hearing “the song” upon my entrance to the cemetery made it easy to know that everything was okay, and that he was glad I’d finally found him.

All is forgiven, all is well.

Being able to place a public sign of affection after 35 years was a spiritually-satisfying ceremony. I know there’s never been a “Dad” memorial laid at that grave. I feel a special new bond to my dad after doing that. I believe with my whole heart that he was there hearing every word I breathed that morning. I am calm and peaceful for having completed a journey I’ve wanted to for so many years. I’m also relieved to know where it is, exactly. I feel lucky to have a mom who put a special mark on his gravestone, knowing that someday his children would want to have that part of his personality shown to them in the last vestige of any physical proof of his existence. I am grateful for the experience last week in that cemetery overlooking the rolling hills and farmland.

Was he a train dude? Yes indeed he was.