At dusk, with a clear sky and cold temperatures, I photographed this train passing through Brighton. The red flashing lights on the crossing gates reflected off of the moving cars; some carrying containers with “China” stenciled on them, some empty flatbeds, and many with graffiti scrawled with spray paint.
I never gave trains passing through Brighton much thought until my mom moved to town in the early 1990s. ”Where are the trains?” she asked soon after settling here. She had heard them from the patio of her new apartment. I drove to the crossing and showed her where the loud horns blared and the tracks rumbled, a half mile away.
She told me about her early years in towns on the main rail lines of northern Illinois, lines that brought cattle to the Chicago stockyards and virtually everything else moving to points east. Billowing steam announced their arrival to everyone’s delight as they brought goods, new faces, and newspapers from big cities in her pre-radio years.
I’m more aware of trains passing through town now. I hear them approaching and go to the tracks whenever I can.
Everyone love trains. Where I live now, the nearest train is at least 30 miles away. Never hear them. In Michigan I always lived within earshot of trains and once, right up against the tracks. I could tell time in the middle of the night based on when one passed. It was comforting. I thought I could even tell when there was a different engineer because of his “whistle print.” Two longs, one short, & another long when they hit the crossing.
You’ve given me a new perspective of living beside the tracks. A 3-story condo was built right beside the tracks in Brighton a few years ago. I thought it was a terrible idea. Who would want to endure that noise? But I understand how it could become a comforting part of one’s life as you’ve explained it.
I’ll now have to listen for “whistle prints.”