When he was out, and you had an idea when he was supposed to be in, you started listening for the rich sound of a train chugging into town from the south. I’d often hear the whistle, jump on my bike and race for the nearest crossing, about a mile from my house. If I could beat the caboose to the crossing, I’d get the treat of having my father lean out the window atop his conductor’s perch and holler, "Hey o’ buddy, I’m home..." Just typing out that wonderful memory has brought tears to my eyes.
Being flexible often meant Christmas was celebrated sometimes on Christmas eve, Christmas Day, or - worst case scenario for a kid - the day after Christmas, depending on dad’s train schedule. That’s just the way you did it. I remember one Christmas eve about 9:00PM expecting dad’s train to be arriving in the next hour. Mom decided we’d open presents when dad walked in the door, and we anxiously listened for the sound of his old pickup pulling into the drive...
Having spent hours working out in the freezing December cold due to various train breakdowns, an exhausted, dirty, half-frozen father opened the front door to find his family still waiting...at 2:30 in the morning. Setting down his black leather work grip in its customary spot, he sat down amongst us and declared the Christmas celebration was now in session. I didn’t appreciate that gesture on his part nearly like I do now. It’s just the kind of man he was.If you’ve read many of these writings of mine at all, you’ve gathered the fact that my dad left an indelible mark on my life, and I miss him greatly. This year will mark the tenth Christmas since his passing.
But because that Christmas babe in the manger would later willingly die upon a Roman cross as payment for my sin, I will be reunited with my dad....and I can just hear him now:
"Hey o’ buddy...you’re home."
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