Culture of a Train Town

I've been waiting for a hot summer day to share this piece of creative writing with you all, and its arrived right on time - the summer solstice is here!

It’s hot... It’s humid. The air melts onto my face and neck within seconds of being out of the AC’d building. My skin simmers as I drive home from work – a five minute commute. I don't mind my sticky skin, as my hair blows wild around the car. The sunshine touches everything, beautifully painting the day in color. The trees and grass are still at their greenest, the heat of the pavement sways upward and the people splatter pinks, yellows, and blues across the canvas of the afternoon. Every moment is a moment to memorize, a moment to live in. 

I turn left onto my street, the main street. Its a train town. A speck on a map, a location people often confuse with being somewhere else – it’s that small. This one main street is always a bustle in the afternoons: Kids on bikes, teens window shopping, workpeople on the go, townies sitting on the outdoor patios of the restaurants that speckle the neighborhood. Young adults and old adults jogging with their dogs, a group of boys in the park playing football. Most characteristically, the rumble every fifteen minutes of the trains to and from the city marks the passage of time. Though small, this town is certainly alive in itself. You can see how its nestled into the world. The sidewalks are uneven, the streets are composed of potholes, the store fronts are mismatched, all evidence of a town that has lived for years and aged quaintly nourishing those living here.  

Driving down this busy street is comfortable. I am home. Passing by the townies, the children, the dog walkers and joggers, I know here I am safe and at ease. Ah, this town. A train town. It’s at its best in summer.