THE PAINTED GARDEN...

It is cold and 40 shades of grey here today the skies are dark, low, fingers of rain reach down from the clouds across the valley. I am alone and the grim weather only serves to exaggerate the solitude. Wandering room to gloomy room like a bebe in a boxcar, even the lights seems to be consumed by the oppressive greyness.

I decided to read but my restless mind still wandered. I closed my eyes and burrowed back through my memory looking for something warm and fuzzy to wrap myself in. A cozy dark memory, yes, lying in the upper berth of a sleeper car on a train bound for Denver, rocked by the subtle swaying motion of the rail car and seduced into sleep by the rhythmic click, click, click of the wheels rolling along the track. It was a trip made with my Grandma, kindred spirits us, I adored being with her. Together we looked out the ceiling windows of the Dome liner car at the towering Rocky Mountains as the train snaked it's way through narrow mountain passes, and gasped at the abrupt night and day of tunnels and the sight of the rail bed off the side plunging visual miles over jagged rocks to the river below. I felt like a potentate munching cinnamon toast in the fancy dining car. Moving from car to car was a rush, loud and fast scenery whipping past while rail ties flash by beneath your feet.

This is when I fell in love with travel by train. A lovely warm haunting memory of power in motion, tandem wheels, steam whistles and smiling black porters long gone the way of my Grandma. It infused my life with desire for a ride on the Orient Express but alas she is a ghost too. So the engine rolls on in the endless cinema of my memory calling back the feelings, the sounds, and the love, an excursion for a rainy day. Thank you Grandma.