I'm in the train station, waiting. I love trains. As a Midwestern child, if I heard a train whistle in the distance at night, it made me dream of all the places I might go some day. Edna Vincent Millet said in a poems that she never heard a train that she didn't want to get on, or words to that effect. Now when I hear a train whistle I think of my beloved Dad. He grow up on a hill farm in southern Ohio. He told me that when ever a train came along the nearby tracks, all the boys from neighboring farms would stop what they were doing and run to watch the train. I suppose they dreamed of traveling to wonderful places. My Dad knew the names of all the train lines that came through although most of them have probably changed by now.
The drive from my Florida home to here was tedious. I had to drive through the Disney traffic and then through downtown Orlando. It made me realize how much I was looking forward to the peace of the farn. I can't wait to walk through the long spring grass of the yard and see which of my flowers are blooming. The only sounds will be from the birds singing, leaves rustling in the breeze, an occasion passing car or a distant dog barking. Bliss.
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