The Tiffany Silver Factory of Newark, New Jersey is a magnificent building with 24-inch thick red brick-brownstone walls and turreted towers. It loomed ominously just behind my childhood home. A set of Erie Lackawanna Railway tracks ran between the factory and my families apartment building which sat on a hill just across the street. Oil, coal, chemicals, live stock, and freight of all kinds would slowly rumble through night and day. My bed vibrated every time a train went through. I hated and loved the trains. Early in life, I developed a recurring dream that a train would veer off the track and crush me in my room. It was a vivid and terrifying dream. As I got older I wanted to overcome my fear of the trains, so I decided to confront them. You see, It was around this time that my future girlfriend’s brother, Tommy, lost a leg when attempting to hop a train. It was a terribly unfortunate accident that frightened every mother and child in the neighborhood, and for good reason, because, for most of the kids in the neighborhood It was a right of passage to hop a ride on a moving train. Doing it became an obsession for many of the neighborhood kids, and needless to say, it was a dangerous game. I thought of Tommy every time I walked the tracks. I wondered if I’d be able to hold on to the rusted steel ladder ascending the side of the freight cars when it was my turn. I fantasized about it all the time. When trains weren’t rolling through, walking the tracks was quite peaceful. We’d sit on the smooth steel rails musing for hours waiting for faint vibrations to grow stronger as the trains approached. We’d try and estimate the time it would take for a train to arrive by the strength of the track vibration. Some boys played chicken with the trains while more sensible onlookers shouted disapproving insults. The hissing air compressors and the banging of machines from the factories were our daily soundtrack. My friends and I would place pennies and nickels on the tracks and wait for the massive steel train wheels to flatten them into paper thin copper and nickel chips. We’d use the flattened coins in our sling shots which we’d use to try and shoot birds and squirrels. We’d play and contemplate the time when we’d be old enough to hop a ride on a train. One summer we built a fort-hideout with discarded plywood in the tall weeds just adjacent to the tracks. We’d huddle inside fearfully watching these diesel fueled behemoths while thumbing through a musty stash of girlie magazines. Hurling rocks and bottles at the trains was a daily practice. A less frequent activity was knocking out the windows of the factory. knowing how wrong it was, we’d limit ourselves to one rock and a single throw when the destructive inclination arose. If you missed, too bad! But if you broke a window, you hit the jackpot! The outraged workers would shout out in disgust as kids would squeal and scattered in all directions. This factory and the train tracks were our playground. My friends and I would play for hours in its shadow. The 5 o’clock whistle would eco down the streets letting us know it was super time. What ever we were doing when the whistle blew came to an abrupt halt and we’d shuffle home to family dinners, teasing each other and boasting of our days exploits as we went. At night from my bedroom window I would gaze at this brooding factory. It terrified and thrilled me. It was my imaginary home from which I ruled a kingdom, or, it protected a rival king whom I’d wage battle against. My imagination absorbed this building. It still lives inside me. It permeated my dreams, even today. And I love it!
Posted on: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 17:59:18 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015