Kapiolani Community College
Diamond Journal 2004

The Train Conductor
Abraham Bird

He lived in an adobe house in the pueblo of Paugate. He stood around six feet tall with brown skin and jet black hair. His eyes had seen things most people had only dreamt about. His legs were thin and long, and made for running long distances across the desert floor. His hands were strong and full of veins, which managed to make his hands look marble-like. His teeth gleamed gold and silver from when the dentist had installed caps to fix his unquenchable sweet tooth. When he laughed, it would create a bounty of joyous music and harmony. He wore a black striped hat with a small brim much like that of a train conductor. Some called him “Tony,” I called him “Grandpa,” and he called me “Grandson.”

I remember visiting him in his adobe home made of mud where he lived with his wife, my grandmother. Every time we went to visit, he greeted us at the door, and without hesitation, he would walk with me over to the corral and have me chop wood. Even though it was summer and he did not need the wood for another six months, he liked to save this task for me.

Chopping wood was never tiresome or a burden for me. I seemed to find some Zen or balance in lifting an ax and swinging it towards wood. My grandfather taught me how to chop wood, without saying a word. I watched and listened for the ax to strike and split a log. To this day, I remember what the sound was like when Grandpa chopped wood. It was a sound that carried with it compassion and accomplishment. If I could ever get my log to split like Grandpa could, the log would let out a sigh of relief, bringing with it a gift of aromatic pleasure and a desire to burn.

After chopping wood, I would walk back over to the house and be met with a rewarding slice of watermelon. My family and I would sit listening to stories of the family’s whereabouts and doings. My grandfather would break up the monotony of everybody’s personal lives by going up to the smaller children and pretending to pull watermelon seeds from behind their ears. It was much like the magician trick where a coin somehow appears from behind the ear of an unexpected onlooker.

Grandpa was a humble man. In his time, he was known for his roping and riding skills, as well as his long distance running prowess. My mother told many stories of his athleticism. I would always remember those stories while rummaging through his room and touching the racing ribbons, medallions and trophies that he had won over the years.

Grandpa was full of stories. He liked to tell stories of working for the railroad in Oakland. It was a different time then; there was no state of emergency for people with HIV. It was a time when people still rode in passenger cars, and the streets were safe to walk at night. These stories filled my mind with images of being a hobo and living on the empty railroad cars, carrying a stick with a red and white plaid bundle of belongings on the end of it, and traveling around the country only associating with other vagabonds in my travels.

When Grandpa passed away, I felt as though I did not know him. I never had the time to ask him where he ran, why he ran, what he ran for, and what he thought about when he ran. When Billy Owens ran in the Olympics, he said when he ran he felt as though not only he was running but his tribe was running alongside him. I never took the time to ask my grandpa if his tribe ran with him. Was he on some spiritual journey where he was guided by an inner calling? Did he run for Grandma or was it the reward of finishing?

I am saddened by my sophomoric idealism that Grandpa would always be around. There are so many questions he could have answered, and very few voids that Grandpa could not fill. I had all that information at my disposal, but did not tap into it. For awhile I experienced such despair as when watching the only library in town burn down.

I look at myself and realize that silently, and unknowingly, I became much like my grandfather. I now split wood with fierce intent and concentration. I run far distances in the desert. My legs are long and skinny just like grandpa’s. Sometimes when I am running, I hear grandpa running behind me pushing me to go farther. I feel the same pain and drip and same sweat as my grandpa did. I sing the same songs as grandpa did when he ran through the horizon and back again.

In retrospect, Grandpa is not gone but is reborn in this generation. My heart is no longer filled with emptiness. It is filled with the joy of knowing that my grandpa, however mysterious, was much like me, and I like him. Even though we did not talk much, we still understood one another. The only thing that separated us was a train conductor’s hat.