The Way I See Him

I felt the rumble of the approaching train through the thin soles of my shoes even before I heard it chuffing slowly through downtown Spartanburg.  Anybody still asleep would have been tossed out of bed by the teeth-rattling blast of its horn as it crossed Church Street. I guess if you lived downtown, you were accustomed to the early morning cacophony of the Crescent arriving from Gastonia and points north.  Of course, the racket of the train slowing, its carriages bumping together, and its brakes squealing didn’t bother me.  I’d been up for a couple of hours already, unable to sleep and unwilling to continue tossing and turning in the lumpy bed at the boarding house.  Gramps had driven me into town the previous evening after he finished milking. He’d carried my cardboard suitcase up the steps of the boarding house just two blocks from the station and then stood awkwardly while I paid Mrs. Cubbins $1.50 for the night.  Gramps had been really sweet.  A man of few words at his most voluble, he could barely speak as he gave me a last hug. I stretched up to my full five feet, six inches to kiss him on his whiskered and chapped cheek. I thought he might cry.  Thought I might too.  As I stood on the dimly lit front porch and watched him drive away in his battered Ford pickup, I jammed my hands down in the pockets of my jacket and realized that he’d slipped me a $2 bill.  That may not seem like much now, but at the time, for a poor dirt farmer, it was a generous send off.  Fortunately, the train was on schedule for its 4:55 arrival because it was bitterly cold. My nose was running, my fingers and toes nearly numb.  I turned up the collar of my wool coat but the nicest of my four dresses fell only to my knees, leaving my legs exposed to the freezing February chill.  The navy-colored cap that Granny had knitted helped keep my head warm, but it wasn’t at all stylish.  That was something I could work on when I reached my destination.  They’d have big department stores in the city, especially a city as cultured as New Orleans with its mixture of French, Spanish, and American influences.  I was sure I could find more fashionable clothes there.  Of course, I would have to find a job first, but Paul had written that he’d help me with that.  And a place to stay, too. The conductor hopped down onto the platform once the train stopped moving.  He reached up behind him and grabbed a stool, placing it below the bottom step of the iron stairs leading up into the darkened coach.  I watched as several young soldiers in olive-colored overcoats climbed down, rubbing their sleepy eyes, and searching for somebody in authority.  A sergeant holding a clipboard marched up to them.  “Camp Croft?” he barked.  The boys nodded and the sergeant began comparing their names to his list. “All aboard the Crescent for Greenville, Atlanta, Montgomery, and New Orleans!” the conductor called out in a well-practiced singsong.  I walked up to the stairs and handed my suitcase to a white-jacketed porter.  The conductor offered his hand, and I stepped up and onto the train. I was both excited and anxious about my trip.  I would be traveling alone and by train for the first time, leaving the boundaries of my native South Carolina for the first time, and seizing the last best chance I’d have to escape the troubles that had ruined my life.