I was fortunate enough to be raised in a wonderful, home - full of love. Some are not so lucky, but I cannot imagine anyone more lucky. We were not wealthy, nor affluent but were fortunate to live in a tiny and precious gem of a place called Rosslyn Farms, with about 120 homes and 6 miles from down town Pittsburgh. Dad was a bureaucrat, I guess. He eventually ran one of the branches of the courts systems. He started as a tipstaff (an old English term) for an old family friend who was a judge - Clarence B. Nixon - my friend Ingrid's grandfather, and he retired as the Chief Minute Clerk of the Assignment Room of the Civil Division of Common Pleas Court, in Allegheny County, Pennsylvania. We were raised in a conservative Christian home (Methodist - no card playing allowed) which was full of love and happiness and, I think, some of the best Christmas mornings possible.
I could write, and may possibly still, about the Christmas morning when Santa brought me a kitten which I found waiting at the top of the basement stairs. She lived 18 years and had become such a member of the family that Dad chiseled onto a headstone for her when she died - LIZZIE - A Good Friend. It was still there on the back hill when I sold 211 Alden. Or I could describe for you the thrill of finding a cage with my pet monkey in it one Christmas morning. Or the year my brother and I found lemons in our stockings. But tradition is on my mind this week - traditions that I miss since leaving the USA, and some that I have never known.
Grandad retired on disability as a conductor for Pennsylvania Railroad (after an injury in what I read was 1 of the 100 most deadly train wrecks in American history), and worked on trains his whole life. Railroads were once the 'space age' or 'computer revolution' for America and great pride was taken in some of the rail systems and locomotives that were developed. (At one point in his early married life before I was born, Dad was a night watchman - railroad policeman - for the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company (B&O), and told me that every night in his guard shack, he fed a mouse cheese and crumbs from his sandwich as he ate the meal that Mom packed for him, and which, surprisingly to me, included a clove of garlic to eat raw.) Railroads, and therefore model trains, played an incredibly large role in my family's life and story.
Dad bought my brother lots and lots of train sets - not Lionel because he couldn't afford them but American Flyer, a less expensive model - and after they bought the house on Alden from the Ray Cathcart family, he set up a large 8 x 8 plywood platform down in the basement for them each Christmas season. (The plywood was painted the same silver that Dad had painted all of his yard tools, so I guess either Grandma had a few buckets of it in her garage, or it was cheap to buy - war surplus.)
Every Christmas, he would stack his fusee cases - the wooden boxes that the railroad flares were shipped in - and put the plywood platform together, and then started building his railroad with my brother. Little lighted houses. Street lights and crossing lights. A Bridge - called a tressel and pictured above, which Dad made by hand because he couldn't afford to buy one. The paper mache tunnel, with sparkly snow on its top. Electric rail switches. A lighted airport tower light that rotated from the hot air rising from the lamp. The obligatory water tower with its hinged spout, to fill the locomotives. I especially remember the Pullman train - sleek and silver with lights behind silhouettes in the windows of people sitting in their seats, including a man with a pipe's smoke curling up from it. Polished aluminum - it was 'cool' to me.
Dad had many complete train sets and, for those who remember one like it, a heavy and smelly transformer with 2 handles for 2 track sets, with green and red lamps that glowed when everything was right, and buttons to push to make the locomotive's whistle blow. Little buttons to throw switches and even a railcar that dumped, with the aid of an electromagnet, 'logs' onto a loading platform. The smell of ozone, and hot 3-in-1 oil, used to clean the tracks, burning off.
I recall at least one year when the Christmas tree was in the center of the platform, but I am not sure if it was there every year. Photo records show several years of trains, and the photo album included a color snapshot taken at Maw Swanson's apartment (before we moved to Alden Road) of one train set up - a photo taken by our next door neighbor, Dr. Harry Black, father of my recent visitor, Rosemary.
Eventually, as my brother grew older, I guess, the train platform either shrunk, or was eliminated. The reason, in my mind at least, was that I was a fat and clumsy kid. I could never re-right the trains onto the tracks with my fat and un-coordinated fingers, and could never have figured out how to run any of the other devices and lost interest in them. It is proof of an era passing, though, in my family. One son who loved them and a younger, who never could appreciate the significance of the tradition, until years later.
There are 5 and a half years difference in my brother's and my ages. So, Dad bought me my own, more simple, train set - I don't recall the brand, but it was not Lionel nor American Flyer. But in the midst of this giant set-up, it was "my" train, and will always be mine in my heart - even though, as I said, I could barely re-set the cars onto the track when there was an upset.
When the time came many, many years later, to pass the trains on, it was only right and fair for Dad to give them to my brother. They were his, and he enjoyed them so much more than I did. And, since he had a child and she would have a family someday, it was natural for me to 'allow' Dad to give him MY train set as well.
My brother sold some to collectors and paid experts in restoration to rebuild some. One was Dad's own childhood train - probably bought in the late 1920's. Another he invested in, was mine, which he gave to Denise, for her family.
Today, at my brother's request, she emailed me some pics of MY train set - around the tree in their new home in York, PA. Her son, Andrew apparently LOVES all things "train" and even pushes or pulls it around the track with no power applied. Dad's train - a precious antique now - runs around the tree at my brother's home, so the kids have 2 sets to enjoy.
The model trains are a tradition in the Doak house, but one that I failed to enjoy at the time. Regardless, I appreciate things which are traditional - passing on old to the next generation, and I derive great pleasure when I hear that the 'old' is so much appreciated by the young.
In a different vein, I have made a new friend here, whom I now describe to myself, for lack of a better phrase, as having "Olde World" values. I introduced you to her several postings back, when she visited AF along with a young American engineer working here. She is a Mexican beauty - that's pretty obvious - but more importantly, she has a beautiful heart and spirit, which is drawn from her family's history and traditions. She is proud of her country's history which goes back to the Mayans, and Aztecs and has taught me some of it. (I should also add that she promises me Spanish lessons, - we are starting on numbers - but her success teaching me will be limited by this old and worn out brain.) She has great pride in her roots in North America and has repeated to me several times, a sentiment - "All Mexicans are not Mayan, but all Mayans are Mexicans."
We have spent several evenings talking into the late hours about our lives and I enjoy hearing about a different set of values - I often interrupt to ask her to clarify some detail - and a morality and formality that is lost in American culture.
I imagine that anyone observing us as we talk would immediately jump to the conclusion that I am trying to seduce this young and beautiful woman (and any man would be envious that I share her company, for sure) but they would be wrong. I enjoy her companionship. Our relationship is as platonic as I can imagine possible, (Oh my, if it could be more....... but I am also a pragmatist when it really counts) and truthfully, I am not sure if, with my background, I could ever assimilate into her culture successfully. I wonder sometimes if any American is capable of truly understanding the purity of love she has described in her family and friends. (That doesn't keep me from fantasizing about being introduced to her grandmother - the matriarch of her mother's family, and how I would try to dig deep into my soul to show the respect and deference that her position, and tradition, requires.) We gringos are so whitewashed now - our hearts bleached of the ability to love with the innocence that she describes. I love to listen to her stories and my heart soars when she laughs, her eyes flashing smiles of their own. She is intelligent, educated, mischievous and funny. Still young, she is, in every sense of the word though, a lady, with a wisdom and insight that astounds me, and although I am not sure I could ever squeeze myself into her culture, I cherish hearing about it - a life born out of different traditions. I am learning so much in my new life away from the USA - only honed to American values and now open to learn new ones.
As I enjoyed learning the traditions of serving a meal in a French home - the formality and order and structure, I love to hear her talk of the pleasures of her life and family from a very different set of traditions.
This is about "tradition". New. Old. Forgotten. Re-discovered. And, to me - good. I have never accomplished anything that gives me license to advise, but if I had, one piece of advice I would offer would be to find a forgotten tradition and give it life again, or, if you cannot do that, then create a new one. Create a legacy. Start a tradition.
I will write more, I hope, before Christmas, but if not, let me repeat - Life is Good. I am blessed. Merry, Merry Christmas, or Feliz Navidad. (The Spanish lessons are paying off.)
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