TROOP TRAIN

TROOP TRAIN

Long lines of odd train cars slowly roll by
Clicking and clacking, grimy and taint.
We think we can read the names of their lines,
Dirty old logos, under fresh white paint.
Coming from somewhere and going some place
Pulled by an engine where diesel smoke flared.
The old cars, rolling coffins, were packed full
Of young soldiers who had not, as yet, been scared.
Their beardless young faces,
Some with grins, some with tears,
Hung far out the windows,
Giving many loud cheers.
We jumped off our porches
And ran apace of their whoops.
We waved and saluted
Heroes-to-be in tan suits.
And then something happened
That hadn’t happened before.
They crowded the platforms where car linked to car,
Every window was open, their arms reaching out.
Throwing papers weighted with pennies,
“Write me, write me! Tell your sisters to write me!”
they would shout.
We scooped up their papers and ran close beside,
Begging for bullets or insignias or hats.
They laughed as they told us
They could spare none of that.
We ran and ran, until shaking and winded,
We stopped, only to wave and give a salute
As their faces grew small and then faded,
Those heroes-to-be in tan Army suits.
My pockets were scrammed full and so was my hands.
But the cars kept on coming, so steady and slow,
Like slow running rivers
Where their blood would soon flow.
Mumbling, “Loose lips sink ships,”
The crossing guard came out of his shack,
He took the notes from our pockets
And never gave them back.
That was fifty-six years ago now
When with wide eyes and spent limbs,
I watched them pass, thinking somehow
After the war, I would see them again.

By: James Carl Collins (James' father)

Christmas at my mother’s house…

Christmas at my mother’s house…


After we eat Christmas dinner; my sister, my cousins, and myself sit around the table and talk of the antics of Grandpa Collins. We would do this before he died and we knew the stories by heart, but the telling of the stories was the enjoyable part. Every year we would die laughing and every year a new twist would be placed on the story. To put this in perspective, since you have never met my grandpa, I must first introduce you to his unique style of life. Nothing bothered him, seriously, nothing ever embarrassed him! 99% of the time he would sit in his easychair, watch the ballgame, and ignore every word my grandmother spoke (except dinner, lunch, breakfast, and maybe “the phone is for you”).

Grandpa had the oddest since of humor. Example: my cousin, Aaron, who is Deathly afraid of heights was painting the eves of his house. Grandpa thought it was the funniest thing to walk under the ladder and vigorously shake it, until Aaron clutched on for dear life. When you rode with him in the summer you always had to watch your elbows as you rested them on the rolled down window, Grandpa loved to take the mirrors of cars parked in the street. Unfortunately it was on YOUR side of the car. Shrapnel would fly, and he wouldn’t even crack a smile. We learned to sit with our hands in our laps!

My favorite Grandpa Story was what we dubbed the ATM story. It was the summer of ’85 and the banks had just begun using ATM’s. So Grandpa had my dad drive him to the bank so he could get cash. At the time we had a tan station wagon. Any who, we pulled in to the front of the band, Grandpa got out, waltzed inside. After he entered the bank, a black family, driving a tan station wagon, pulled in the space next to us and the person in the passenger side went in to the bank. In a few minutes Grandpa came out of the bank and strolled over to the black families passenger side, opened the door, and sat down. He slapped the gentleman in the drivers seat on the knee and said. “Jimmy I got this cash from a machine” holding a fan fold of cash. It was at that moment that he realized that he was in the wrong car. The black man looked over at our car with a stare that said. “Help me! A crazy man has entered my car!” Saw my father laughing so hard the he was crying. Realizing what had transpired, he smiled and laughed. My Grandfather, however, realizing that he was in the wrong car with a fist full of cash, had difficulty getting out of the car. But after a few attempts he succeeded.

Meanwhile, back in the correct car we all were laughing so hard that we were lying in the foot wheels. Grandpa had now gotten out of the other car and had entered our car. He slapped my dad on the knee and said. “Jimmy I got this cash from a machine”. He didn’t laugh, discuss it, joke, nothing! To him it never happened and he never talked of it, ever!

(James Hobart Collins, Christmas 2001)