TRAINS

A Christmas Story - As a child, nothing said Christmas season better than when the HO train set came down from the attic. Our dad would first work alone for days before we were allowed to help.

The platform was set on sawhorses in the den, the green paper underlay painstakingly smoothed and repaired. Each track was skillfully tacked into place, and delicate wires were once again connected in a magical array that smelled of burning. Only train people know that smell.

Paper mache would transform into painted mountains and cardboard would become dark tunnels. Each car was gently unpacked from its tissue paper packages. Wheels and gears were oiled and corners were glued.

Every house seemed to need reassembly and each tiny billboard and street lamp was set down in perfect alignment.

Then, and only then, when all else was completed and tested, were we allowed to set down the tiniest of plastic people, each posed in their own freeze-frame flurry of activity. Some seemed to be hailing a cab. Others walked the tiniest of dogs. Caroler groups were placed outside the town church. I’ll never forget the tiny men in long rain coats and brimmed hats, the miniature deer glued onto the mountainside, and my favorite, the water tower.

For weeks before Christmas, it seemed that nothing else mattered but the construction of, an idealic world in miniature, all set to the smell of cookies baking in the oven and Christmas in Zitherland playing on the record player.

Looking back I cannot tell you one present under the tree that meant more to me than the time I spent with my dad setting up the trains, or helping my mom bake Christmas cookies.