RIDING THE RAILS

French Lick, Indiana, was the first place I ever rode a train. Unless you count the little train they used to have at the MTV City Park. Oh, how I loved that train.

Carol Hicks would know, but I believe the Lions Club took over that train once it left the park. I know her dad, Jim engineered the Lions Club train for years.

The second train I rode in Paris, France, to Belgium got my picture in the local paper because my wife and I were with Gov. Edgar and his wife. He was wearing a Rend Lake College jacket, so we got a picture for the locals, including RLC Pres. Mark Kern.

Since then I've ridden the train from Williams, AZ, to the Grand Canyon, the Bullet Train in Japan, all around Austria and Switzerland where I slept soundly.

And while I never miss having to wait on a train to clear the tracks, what I miss most about the lack of trains in Arizona is the sound of the horn. That far off sound in the night seemed to be calling me from the comforts of the inside of my house on Olive.

What we have in Scottsdale are airplanes. Virgil De Boer is a two-month resident of Scottsdale and he says just once he would like to look to the sky and not see at least one plane. He's right. It's rare when there aren't any. But they don't make that cool sound.

Maybe it's the appeal of the hobo in me. A romantic character, he was his own man. He lived by his wits and usually hopped a freight train to get where he was going. At least in legend and lore. And there aren't any hobos on planes. Or stowaways anymore.

No, forget that thought. It's the sound of the trains' horn. Or even the trains' whistles like they have at the St. Louis Zoo, still also a favorite of mine.

They just draw me to them. Now, the wait's another story. I used to keep a paperback book in my glove compartment just to read while I was waiting on a train. Maybe the planes aren't so bad.