A Piece of History Vanishes

We often don't think about the (physical) history surrounding us until it begins to disappear. Living in an apartment complex I haven't given much thought myself, to the idea.

A block west from where I live is an old railroad track that runs north/south. Most every weekday between noon and three p.m. the freight train goes by, ambling along the track that bridges the street. Often it has an engine on either end and see-saws back and forth between the nearby businesses. There are a few days when you hear the train whistle before you actually see the train. Other days you don't know it's passing by untill you hear the clickity-clack of the wheels on the trestle.

Now when we hear the train the whistle blows forlornly as it takes another route to its destination. Will we see it again? Who knows. After twenty years of impact studies the state has finally decided to allow the commuter train in our area. While it's something we need to connect us to the rest of the state, it's slowly putting an end to an era, a piece of history.

For the last month I've been watching workers slowly dismantle the track at either end of the trestle. Surrounding trees and bushes were uprooted then the railroad ties were systematically removed. When I first heard the chainsaw buzzing and chewing away at the tree trunks I was shocked at what the workers were doing and could picture all that loose dirt being washed down the hill in a hard rain. It puts you in mind of California's mudslides but on a smaller scale.

This past weekend I kept going back to the window to watch the trestle being dismantled. Sparks flew from cutting torches and separated the sides from the trestle bed. The three pieces were separated from their supports and a large crane carefully hauled them out of the way.

The next day, the workers cut into the supports and eventually took them down. I wasn't home to see them complete the work but when I got home, it was strange to see two concrete walls devoid of the iron it flanked and supported for at least a hundred years. The land on either side, for perhaps a quarter mile, is now barren except for mounds of dirt, the new but temporary landscape.

I've seen what the new trestle will look like, sleek and battleship gray but it lacks character, as do all new things. I imagine in another hundred years, someone will write about the commuter train and wax nostalgic over its passing. "The more things change..."