A Musician and Self-Published Author Prefers Rail

The Cardinal, Train No. 50

The giggling girls in the Café car are hairdressers from Charleston, West Virginia heading to the International Beauty Show in New York City. “What do you want to learn while there?” I ask.

“Just everything,” they squeal. “We want to see everything.”

Cafe car view from Amtrak Cardinal train

Orland in the Cafe car on the Cardinal heading to Charlottesville, Virginia.

A man to the left of me is gazing out the window but turns to see what the commotion is about. I throw a “Hello” his way and he catches it. He smiles, but waits a few minutes before talking with me. He is probably registering in his mind whether or not it is safe to talk with me. I am safe. I’m not going to judge him, or hush him, or tell him he’s ugly (he is not). On the train there isn’t much to lose during these chance encounters unless you are a very sensitive person. The upside is train travel camaraderie.

He’s a retired civil engineer who is spending his post work life developing his creative side. “I like playing music, writing songs and painting,” he says. “What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.” Most people follow up with a ‘What do you write?’ question but he says: “Oh, wait here. I have something.” He gets up and leaves. I sip my coffee and wonder what he is up to. In a few minutes he returns and slides a black soft cover book across the café car table. Ugh, a self-published author. I try not to judge.

“I’ve written three books. My brother has written six,” he says. That slide across the table has become familiar to me. The authors don’t ask a dime for their books. They just shove it towards you as if it were something as measly as a business card. Continue reading→

The Healer Finds Joy

The Cardinal, Train No. 50
Amtrak Cardinal train enters the New River Gorge

View of the New River Gorge from Amtrak Cardinal train

While on the train I witness the seniority of the natural world. We pass through portions of the millions-of-years-old Blue Ridge and Allegheny Mountains, the New River Gorge and the Shenandoah Valley.

The New River is the second oldest river on the planet according to volunteer train narrator Al LaDriere. He asks: “Who knows what other characteristic makes this river different?”

“It flows north,” says my seatmate, Oksana. She’s right. She lived in this area since arriving from the Ukraine as a child. Now she lives in Durango, Colorado with her second husband. She is returning to Charlottesville to visit with her two boys, ages 18 and 20.

“I never would have guessed that about the river,” I tell her.

We get up out of our seats and cross the aisle for a better view of the ancient river’s rushing water. Oksana’s physical features remind me of a pencil. A pixie haircut surrounds her bony face and angular nose. Her eyes are expressive and penetrating. She tells me her first husband died. Her parents died. Her younger brother died. All of these encounters with death for a woman still in her thirties seemed as unlikely as a river flowing north.

Oksana’s life moved in another direction. She remarried and changed careers from being an antiques dealer to becoming a shamanic healer. She dedicates her time to helping people recover from trauma or the loss of a loved one. She has a studio in Durango and offers one-on-one long distance help via Skype.

Most of the sites on the Cardinal train route are familiar ground for Oksana but they are new to me. We enjoy being in this moment together, on the crest of mountains, watching the river snake through the passes, the train trusting its path.

Prison Guard Returns Home on Narrated Cardinal Train Route

Cincinnati to Charlottesville, VA, The Cardinal, Train No. 50
Coach seats on Cardinal train

Coach seats on the Cardinal train

The man sitting across the aisle from me unloads a large orange duffle bag from his back onto the train’s overhead baggage rack. I know I’ve met someone from a different region when I hear him ask in a soft, southern accent: ”Do you need any help with your bag, ma’am?” I acknowledge his kind gesture with a warm smile and a shake of the head, no. I travel light.

He looks as though he could toss my bag overhead with one arm. His strong build and gentle manner reminds me of how nice men can be. His beard is shabby in an outdoorsman kind of way. His brown hair holds a slight wave. He’s dressed casually in faded jeans and a blue sweatshirt.

“That’s quite a load to be carrying on your back,” I say.

“I’ve been working and camping at Yellowstone National Park for 78 days. I’m returning home to Alderson, West Virginia.” That’s all he says before he begins viewing several music websites on a laptop.

“Are you a musician?”

“No. I’m retired from federal law enforcement.”

“What does federal law enforcement mean?”

“I worked at the federal prison in Alderson for six years and before that twenty some years at the federal penitentiary in Tallahassee, Florida.”

“You were a prison guard?”

“Yes.”

“I bet you have some stories to tell.” Continue reading→