Afternoon Meanderings…

I spent all afternoon hiking the rails. A few switchmen were cutting some pulpwood cars at the rail tracks in the now mostly quiet rail yard in downtown West Point, Georgia.

“Where are ya‘ll headed?” I hollered out over the mechanical clamoring of the idling GP50 Dash 2 locomotive as I walked briskly nearby.

The rails always kindle a fondness and camaraderie within me.

“Up LaGrange way to drop these cars off at the pulpwood yard then back to Atlanta,” One switchman replied.

The other switchman was drinking a bottle of Sam’s Club water as he jingled some keys and climbed upon the hulking locomotive. I wished them well and continued on with my walk. I wish I had a digital camera these days to capture some of these experiences in pictures for the blog. I am lamenting the fact that I sold it on E-Bay.

I came back upon the railroad bridge crossing Hardley creek several miles down the line which is a rather good sized stream of water that actually flows in a conduit under the old, abandoned cotton/textile mill that gave it it’s locomotion for the cotton looms that once busily chattered nosily within. The mill looks like some old urban disaster that is slowly crumbling back into the ground; a discarded relic from the turn of the century when steam locomotive power was still king and the same mechanical beasts once dropped boxcars laden with big, heavy bales of cotton to be processed into cloth and other textiles. Broken windows abounded and the only signs of life were a few pigeons fluttering in and around through the gaping holes in those grand, ancient entries of light that probably once shined upon my grandfather as he toiled as a supervisor years ago in this same cotton mill.

I crawled down the embankment by the bridge to the water’s edge. Underneath were clear signs of an old hobo encampment. Tattered blankets, damp cardboard, and discarded, empty bottles of cheap wine littered the jumbled disarray of the area near the creek. An old fire pit still smelled of wet ashes from a long extinguished fire. I sat down on a concrete abutment and lit up a cigarette as I opened a bottle of Gatorade and took a long draught. All was right in my world at that moment.

I then hiked on through the pecan grove across from the tracks back into the woods were Ferret used to camp. There was no sign of Ferret except for the many fading from the sun beer cans he left during his term of homelessness and a long discarded and tattered carcass that was once a cheap Wal-Mart tent. I thought back fondly on the days I and Ferret used to sit and talk as he drunkenly cooked many a meal over an open fire. He is homed now; back living with his lush of a mother. I don’t know what is worse: homelessness or an abusive alcoholic parent. I am leaning toward the former. At least he is warm these days…

As I finally made it back up the street to my home, the rain started to softly fall and steadily increased. I smiled and looked up into the sky as I stopped walking and held out my tongue like some goofy kid to catch a few sweet raindrops upon it. Maggie was wiggling wildly at my backdoor with some road carcass of a dead squirrel in her mouth.

“Just great,” I thought. “Roadkill for dinner.”

“How nice of you Maggie to think of me so kindly,” I said as I got the quite damaged squirrel from her mouth and scooted her inside.

It has been a busy day.