Some clouds. Low around 55F. Winds NE at 5 to 10 mph..

Some clouds. Low around 55F. Winds NE at 5 to 10 mph.

If a person should wake in the middle of the night in the city of Corbin, they are bound to hear a slow rumble, like the thunder of a building storm never quite reaching its crescendo. From where I live, the jarring sound of trains rumbling somewhere in the distance is a recurrent song in my nighttime revere, their creaking wheels rocking over steel tracks that lead to unknown destinations.

Reflectively, one of the first assignments I give my students when school begins is for them to make a personal connection and write something contemplative about a particular subject and see where it takes them and their writing. Often, student and teacher are pleasantly surprised.

As an illustration, for me, trains always connect with a sense of adventure. Even the sound as they roll through the night imparts a mysterious ambiance.

When I was younger, there was always the temptation to jump on one of those slow-moving train cars and simply see where it took me. I often wonder if I inherited this adventurous gene from my father. In his youth, he hitchhiked across America, gathering stories like I gathered Cs in my math classes. I guess heredity is what makes a child wonder about his parent and vice versa. There is definitely a connection because I love those stories.

Contemplatively, during my banking years, I used to paint portraits to supplement my income. More than once, oil paint and canvas put frozen pizza on my milk crate table (I’m just joking, I couldn’t afford a milk crate).

Painting portraits is an arduous task. Or at least I found it hard to capture an accurate likeness all the time. Sometimes, I would paint for months on one portrait. I remember one project where I was commissioned to paint a baby. It took me so long that the image I used to paint the child no longer looked like the actual child. I remember the mother looking befuddled until I showed her the photograph, at which point she said, “Oh, I remember that photo.”

Still, over the years, I have found one face that I have no problem painting. Maybe it is the stories, or maybe it is the genes passed on through heredity that guides my paint strokes; regardless, I have never really had a problem painting the face of my father. He might disagree. He might look upon my work and not recognize the man I have brought forth on canvas with paint and pain, but I see him.

I see long stretches of road and his twisted thumb. I see him finding refuge in an abandoned boat in some distant dock during a thunderstorm. I see him gaze at the terrain of red earth silhouetted against redder skies. I see the detailed branches of juniper trees in the Oregon landscape that eventually became his home.

So, when those trains unstealthily make their way out of town on the edges of the city in the dark of night, they touch a spot in my heart, the wanderer in me, and I feel a connection to my father.

Brian Theodore can be contacted at Theteachersdesk.theodore@gmail.com.

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