The Silver Ghost

I was very young when I first heard the lonesome horn of the Silver Ghost carrying across the Nebraska plains where nary a train has ever run. I was sitting on the front porch next to Grandaddy in a little swing Papa had built, watching the sun set across the rippling waves of grass when that mournful whistle pealed.

“What’s that, Grandaddy?” I asked. I had never before heard a sound so dolorous.

“That, my boy, is the Silver Ghost,” he said. If I had been a little older, I might have noticed a tear drop from his eye, even as a smile colored his voice. I was young though, and often oblivious to such things.

“What’s the Silver Ghost?” I asked.

“Why, it’s the most beautiful train that ever did run,” he said. “It’s built like a bullet and shines so mirror-bright that you almost have to look t’other way when it passes.”

“Can we go see it??” I asked, growing excited. Papa had told me about steam engines he’d seen back east and had filled my imagination with the Transcontinental Railway which would bind the West to the East and make the country whole.

Grandaddy chuckled, “I’m afraid not, my boy. Y’see, no one alive has ever seen ‘er. You kin never find ‘er, no matter how hard y’try, and many a man has tried.”

“Well then, what’s the point?” I pouted. What good is a train if no one ever sees it?

The timbre of Grandaddy’s voice changed when he responded. There was a note of longing that I was too self-absorbed to notice. I was yet young. “When you’ve come to the end of yer line, she finds you. When you see her, you know yer race is finished; yer fight is done. All that’s left is to climb aboard and let her carry you Home.”

I was too disappointed in the idea of not being able to see the train to grasp what Grandaddy was saying. To be honest, I soon forgot our conversation and moved on with my life as children often do. It wasn’t until she carried away someone close to me that I remembered Grandaddy’s story.

Papa had moved our family out to Nebraska before I was born. The East was too crowded, he said. He wanted to raise his family in open spaces and clean air. James and Liza remembered what life was like back then, but all I knew was the emptiness of the prairie. I never thought that events from that life would touch us here, but they did.

News came one day that the southern states had seceded from the Union to form their own confederation. I was old enough at that time to understand the why of it, but that war still seemed so far away. I didn’t understand why Papa felt so strongly about it; Strongly enough in fact that he took the gun, kissed us all goodbye, and headed off to I knew not where to enlist in the Union’s army. The overriding emotion I remember from that day was the feeling of abandonment. How dare he leave his family unprotected to fight in a far-off war for people we didn’t know? I cried hot tears into Grandaddy’s shoulder while Papa said his goodbyes. He touched my back, but I refused to look at him. Eventually, he kissed me on the top of my head and walked away. Oh, how many times did I come to regret that moment! I never forgave myself for choosing to pity myself instead of embracing Papa one last time.

At first, letters regularly arrived written in his hand, filled with his day-to-day experiences and his desire to be home again. He told us of men he’d come to know and love like brothers he’d never had, of battles won or lost, of hard marches and cold nights. Every letter ended with a promise to come home again when the war ended. It was a year or two into the war when the letters stopped coming. We reminded each other of Papa’s promises to come home and assured each other that he would follow through. We figured that any number of things might be happening to keep him from sending his letters home. Then, one night just a few days before the fourth of July, I heard that sorrowful whistle. Suddenly, Grandaddy’s stories about the Silver Ghost came crashing back into my recollection and harsh, quiet sobs ripped their way out of my chest. I knew. Grandaddy came to my bedside carrying a candle, and I saw the tears in his eyes matching mine. We cried together by candlelight long and deep into the night, mourning father and son.

We didn’t tell Momma or the others. I think there was a small hope against hope that maybe we were wrong, even though we knew we weren’t. It was several months later before an officious-looking letter arrived from Washington. In it, printed in cold black ink, we learned what had happened. He had fought in a battle near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and had been shot through his chest. The doctors had tried their best, but he had died later that night. The fact that Papa had fought in the battle that proved to be the turning point in the war offered no succor for us in that moment. I felt a burning hatred for the Silver Ghost that carried Papa away from us. I told myself in the depths of my heart that I’d rather go to Hell than climb onto the train that had carried Papa away from us. I think Granddaddy knew how I felt, although he wisely kept his own counsel.

Time dulls all hurts eventually, turning open wounds into old scars. Gradually, we moved on with our lives. The Silver Ghost again took a back seat in my mind, for I had become busy with the business of growing up. James, by default, had become the man of the house, and he took his responsibility seriously. He, Liza, and I all became men and women, married, and had our own families, but we always went home regularly to check in on Grandaddy and Momma. By the grace of God, it was many years before the Silver Ghost came calling again.

I remember that winter clearly, for it was a hard one. Not even the hottest fire truly kept the bitter cold out. Grandaddy developed a hacking cough that not even Doc Harridan could do anything about. It’s hard to watch someone you love grow weaker every day, powerless to stop it. There came a day a few weeks after Christmas that we all gathered with our families in our childhood home, for we knew the end was near. We were all gathered ‘round his bed, crowding a room never meant for so many when Grandaddy whispered my name. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, a pathway opened through the small throng and I knelt beside him, close to his face.

“She’s comin’ for me,” he whispered, “I can hear her!” My eyes welled up with tears and I could not respond. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. “Don’t cry for me, dear boy,” he rasped, “The Lord is callin’ me home. I’m gonna climb onto that glorious train and she’s gonna whisk me right to His side!”

I kissed him tenderly on the forehead and wept openly. No one quieted me. Soon his breathing slowed and stilled. In that brief stillness, I heard the silvery tone of that horn, and it seemed joyous to me. Suddenly, I understood how long he’d been looking forward to this day, and I could not be angry any longer; sad yes, but not angry. He was going home. I felt a sharp longing rise in my chest. I suddenly felt a deep desire to climb aboard the Ghost myself and join Papa and Grandaddy in the presence of God.

As when Papa died, time eventually began moving again. This time, the wounds left very little scarring on my soul, for I finally felt the anticipation of my own journey. Life came and went; Momma died, and James too, after long lives well-spent. Each note of that wondrous whistle ratcheted my longing to a new pitch. I missed each and every one of them dearly. I knew my time would come, but it was hard to wait.

It came eventually though, as it comes for everyone. I was lying abed one night beside my wife of many decades. I had seldom struggled to sleep, but this night was different. Everything around me was silent as the grave; even the wind had gone still when I heard it closer than ever before. The Silver Ghost was coming for me! I jumped up, great excitement filling my mind. I didn’t even pause to throw on a robe. I simply ran to the front door with agility and litheness my body hadn’t felt in years. I yanked it open to see a thick fog rolling around the house and there she was! Just like Grandaddy had said all those years ago, she was built like a bullet and polished so mirror-bright that I could barely look at her, even in the faint moonlight. I stepped out onto the porch just as a door opened in her side, warm light inviting me to enter. I looked back to the house just once, wishing my wife could join me, but I knew she would take her own journey soon enough and we’d be together again forever in Paradise. With that, I turned toward the Silver Ghost and climbed aboard as she jubilantly whistled and began chugging, taking me home at last.