I have a small interest in trains…not in the sense that I participate in clubs or keep track of schedules or even delve into their history…nothing that engaging or earnest. No, I just find very comfortable the feel of being around train stuff like railroad yards, stations and even tracks with their creosote-stained ties and rusty spikes. I know. Ick.

Having grown up in the Rosemont section of Alexandria, just yards from the tracks and a block from the Alexandria station, train songs—those warning whistles and rattling cars—were continually sung. At night, I would lie awake and listen to them as they passed by, their musical rumble accompanied every quarter-hour by chimes from the George Washington Masonic Memorial (or simply, masonic temple, as the locals call it), which towers over Alexandria city from atop Shuter’s Hill. A favorite neighbor who spent the better part of her summer days in the mid-60′s caring for me while my parents worked, was married to a man who worked at the station. Dressed in his dark blue conductor’s uniform, he would either walk up winding Sunset Drive or follow Commonwealth Avenue and pass underneath the trestle—either route would have him at work in minutes. Although a nice man, he did have a job to do and would shoo me and my friends away from the tracks where we crouched, carefully arranging our pennies dead center on the rails. If we were lucky, our hard work would pay off with perfectly flattened souvenirs, each one-of-a-kind.

Maybe there’s a “train gene” in my family. My mother once told me that right after a train passes by, the tracks are cold, not hot like you might expect from steel spinning against steel. I don’t remember asking what prompted her to frisk the tracks, but I do understand the curiosity. And come to think of it, her father—my grandfather—used to work for the railroad in Ohio, I think, back in the 40′s. And he did sing Workin’ on the Railroad and She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain to me when I was little. Hmmm…

The tracks you see here are only about a mile from the Alexandria station and run parallel to the dog park in Ben Brenman Park. When Lucy grows tired of playing with the other dogs and is ready for a walk, we’ll amble alongside the tracks, and I’ll lag behind, taking pictures and yep, searching deep in my pockets for pennies.