Hear That Lonesome Whistle Blow?

Posted Feb 9, 07:55 AM by Kay Camenisch

The other day I was talking with a friend when a train whistled in the distance. “Oh, isn’t that pretty!” I thought. Our conversation continued uninterrupted, but my feelings had changed. I was smiling inside as if I’d received a big hug. I wondered why the sound made me feel warm and friendly when it evokes melancholy in many others.

That familiar sound took me on a distant journey, beginning shortly after we were married. We lived in Bristol, Tennessee and a train passed at the end of the block. We didn’t have much, but the neighbors were nice. They helped us plant our first garden in our tiny back yard. One day I was in our little kitchen preparing for company when I realized I’d heard the screen door close. I ran to check just in time to rescue our baby from crawling into the street.

At our next house, in Stanford, our son was toddling and our daughter was born. Robert’s family was on furlough from Brazil and lived a mile away from us so I got to know them—and a multitude of cousins. A track ran along the edge of our yard, and the whistle blew as the train approached at two o’clock in the morning. The house shook as the train passed, but those were happy times. We learned to love the train whistle in the middle of the night.

We lived for several years in Atlanta without the sound of a train
nearby. Then we moved to Oklahoma where we developed friendships that have lasted over the years. The whistle would sound as the train passed a mile away. We would often stop and comment, “There goes the train,” as if it were an important happening.

Later we moved to Mississippi for Robert to do graduate studies. We Lived in a rundown house with a three-acre yard full of ancient pecan trees, neglected bushes, and flowers of all varieties. Something bloomed in the yard almost every month we were there. Each was like a gift, a surprise bouquet from God.

I was emotionally spent when we moved into that old house. Working to bring peace and order in the overgrown yard transformed my soul as well as the landscape. I worked for over a year picking up fallen pecan tree limbs and pulling honeysuckle vines out of azalea bushes. As I labored, the train passed along the back of the property, whistling a greeting—a message of hope and encouragement. I would stop, watch it pass, and say, “There goes our friend.” That home holds some of our fondest memories.

We’re back in Stanford now, living near where the track use to run, but it’s been taken up. There’s no longer a friendly train that passes. However, if we’re outside on a quiet night we sometimes hear the familiar whistle in the distance.

Every time I hear it my heart grows warm. I don’t need to ride the train to take a journey. All it takes is the sound of the whistle for
My heart to ride the rails of my past, and for me to realize that I’ve had a good life, a life blessed by God.