The Penny….

As far as I could see in both directions there was a train track.  To the east the tracks made a gentle curve before finally disappearing behind a stand of tall, leafy trees; to the west the tracks vanished straight into a tunnel beside a warehouse under the highway.  

The main road crossing this track had four lanes, along with sidewalks, and the crossing was marked by obtrusive black and white signals on each side of the road which stood tall, like armed sentries protecting the train’s territory.  Traffic on this busy avenue would sometimes slow but the cars still made a hypnotic, bump-de-bump sound as they crossed.  Hard rusty steel gleamed on its surface, kept shiny by the passing trains.  A pungent diesel odor escaped from the gravel-filled spaces between the timber ties, blackened with tar.

Ridiculously close to the train’s path, no more than ten feet from the tracks at it closest corner stood a tiny, red brick building, defiant and courageous, with a sign out front that read Branner Shoe Service.  When my parents would leave me there, the track was the first place I explored. 

Branner Shoe Service, owned and operated by my grandparents, was a busy place on Saturdays, a day off for most people to run errands, but Bill and Allie worked as a team six days a week to keep their business successful. Shoe repairs had to be completed so people could be ready for church on Sunday and work the next week. Customers kept the bell at the front door tinkling as it opened and shut.  It was their business and they rented this tiny space for years, walking honorably in their well-worn shoes to work each day from their home three blocks away, on Sunnyside Avenue, a street appropriately named for them and their decent and admirable attitude.  Sometimes, to give my parents a break, they watched me.  And I watched them.

I watched my grandfather, his gray hair combed neatly back and donned in a full gray apron with blue stripes that enhanced the color of his steely blue-gray eyes, operate with ease fantastic machines, devices that pressed and cut leather, machinery that sanded soles and sewed in stitches on delicate pieces of pedestrian art while spitting out clatter and clang that demanded the attention of a four year old boy.  So I watched.

My grandfather remained serious, his strong chin firm and focused on the job at hand but he lit up when he saw me, taking a break long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sinewy hands and place one reassuringly on my shoulder.  Then back to work and with the help of Willie, his assistant and the first black man I had ever seen, he repaired the stiff outer coverings for the feet of the thrifty and fashion-conscious.  As he labored, I worried that the great and raucous machines might at any moment turn on him but he deftly kept them at bay, probably at times daydreaming a bit, putting himself in the shoes of the doctors and lawyers and bankers who owned them.

My attention fading, I returned to the front of the shop, just a couple of steps away, where I watched my grandmother. Effusive and sparkling, she hosted the waiting customers like a hummingbird at a flower shop.  She flitted and fluttered between the boxes of orders lined up on shelves behind her, to the next guest in line, to the cash register, and back again. Each time a fee was paid, the cash register made a proud and singular ring.  And my grandmother would sparkle again. 

She would bend over, putting her smiling face as close to mine as her aging flexibility would allow her and placing both hands on my cheeks, she would coo, and give me a playful squeeze and a hug that would last me all day.  And sometimes, she would slide a few pennies to me to begin a familiar and welcome routine in which I would happily visit the nearby gum machine, make a deposit and receive a sweet reward.  Chewing that gum and with an extra penny in my pocket, I would sit quietly in a vacant vinyl chair reserved for customers, feet not reaching the floor, and wait. 

It started slow at first, a faint whistle from the east, but growing louder and louder with each blast.  My heart quickening, out the door I dashed, straight to the tracks.  Courage building and putting fears aside, I stomped to the base of the closest signal.  The train thundered faster now and triggered the signals to erupt.  Traffic stopped.  Pedestrians paused.  Lights flashed like lightning.  Bells tolled like a cathedral on Sunday.  The ground pulsated, the guardrails banged lower, and the train pressed on, blaring its warning whistle again and again.  I grinned.  It was a rowdy storm and I was its center.

Grabbing the penny, I spit the gum into my hand and reached onto the cold, vibrating rail, placing the sticky combination onto the shaking surface.  It held.  The heavens shook now, as the beast roared and electricity filled the air.  My ears split and my chest thumped.  Boom! Boom! Boom! rumbled the engine, spewing smoke and scattering rubble.  Time to go.  I retreated a few steps, and just as I had done all morning, I watched. 

This time the train was the one working hard.  Like my grandfather and grandmother, it rumbled on, responsible and industrious, serious about its work but making a happy fuss along the way.  Doing what trains do, they clattered along the tracks of life and before disappearing into a tunnel, flashed by me in an instant, never to be seen again, but leaving me with memories that would last a lifetime. 

And one flat penny.

Cruz Bay, St. John, USVI. circa 1920