~The Early Sixties - Short story ~

It was the early sixties when my Poppa died. 1

My Poppa was a working man. He worked from the hours of dawn till dusk and if business was heavy he would work later into the evening. He had been working on the railway as a station master long before my birth, but he had taken rein when his father, My Grandpa died :before my Third birthday.2

With the help of my Momma as a manager and my Granddaddy working alongside him, my Poppa sold tickets and maintained, the maintenance of the trains and the station in all its run-down glory.3

I remember, at the tender age of Five, when I had the world at my tiny feet and my brain was consuming knowledge with a hungry thirst that was unmatchable to any of the other children who lived close to the station: My poppa telling me.4

“Clara- Lorianne, you will one day run this station with your Momma and your Granddaddy. Clara, you will keep this station alive, I know you will.”5

I looked up at my poppa, innocent eyes. My mind a patterned blur of colors and imagination as I took my Poppa's hand, tagging alongside him. Taking a step close to the train track, My head bobbing up and down like the rainbow horses on the carousels at the fair.6

I saw the fear in my Poppa's eyes. His lips disorientated, his hand slipping away from mine as I felt backwards, losing my grip, falling heavy and hard onto my back against the dirt track not to far from the railing.7

It was a look I remember, even now. His eyes scolding me, reaching for me, squatting as he held out his hand, rising me to my feet: crushing my body against his chest in a relieved embrace. 8

“Clara- Lorianne,” he hushed “Don't you ever give your poppa a scare like that again. Can't you feel poppa's heart? It's exploding inside his chest.”9

I remember holding my hand against my Poppa's chest, feeling the beat of his heart. Feeling it thumping like the beat of a drum, fast, dramatically against his chest.10

Twelve years later we stood on the train tracks. A ticking time bomb inside his ribcage. My palm pressed against his chest. Watching his eyes as they darted between myself and the station cabin. He held his hand to his left shoulder, holding my hand to his furiously, beating heart.11

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. I could feel it in his breathing. I could see it in his eyes.12

I remember my Poppa telling me calmly to get my momma, to run, to find anyone. 13


My Poppa was not feeling well. He was ill, I could hear it in the roughness of his voice. Sounding more like a southerner than an English man.14

I ran-- ran as fast as I could, as fast as my legs could carry me. Up each step, the blanks of wood wobbling with each leap towards the station cabin.15

I screamed, screamed for my Momma, swirling around to see my Poppa lying on the dirt track clutching his chest. The imprint of his body laying in the dirt. A train approaching in the distance. 16

“Momma---momma---hurry Poppa's in trouble,” I screamed. For what seemed like forever in my mind.17

By the time my mother heard me, the train was now only a few minutes from approaching the station: my Poppa had died.18

His panicked breathing now still, like the wind that my Granddaddy assured would pick up in the evening.19

I remember stumbling down the planked, steps. Almost loosing my footing in the dirt. The train pulling to a half a mere eight feet away from where my Poppa lay. The soil covering his body like a blanket.20

I fell to my knees. My skirt hiked up high so that my Momma would not yell at me for getting it dirty. 21

I clutched my Poppa's hand in my own, patting him on the face. Not knowing at that moment, that he had long passed into the heavens.22

“Poppa, don't you give me a scare like that again,” I cried bringing his hand to my chest. “Can't you feel my heart? It's exploding in my chest.”23

I could not feel my poppa's heart, and nor could he feel mine. 24

It was the early sixties. The summer of wild-child freedom. The summer my Poppa promised me that he would teach me the ways of a station mistress.25

Though as the sun set over the pastel, orange sky. I let go of my Poppa's hand and the promise he had made to me.26

I looked over my shoulder, seeing my momma crying in my Granddaddy's arms. The platform filled with passengers gawking at my Poppa and I. Their ghastly, pastured, faces sullen and desolate. 27

I remember turning to my momma. I was stubborn with my lack of knowledge on medicine and my denial of death. 28


I raised my Poppa's hand in the air, saluting his soul farewell and turned to my mother, looking her in the eyes, as she turned to face.29

“I scared Poppa so much his heart exploded,” I hushed, tears falling from my swollen eyes.