Entombing silence of 4:14 A.M.
Questioning whisper?
Distant, faint purring thunder intrudes?
Growing, amping low rumble afar
	Senses peak!
Multitonal Leslie shrieks as lightning
	rending black sky
Long — Long — Short — Long

Two thousand horsepower
Two hundred ton missile bearing down
Polished steel wheels grind on
Single-minded steel rails, old creosoted wood

Throttle notches up, thunder nears
Thirty feet from soft bed covers
Hard, clanking, rolling steel on steel
Knuckles strain ‘tween cars, fingers tense

Bedroom quakes, bed trembles
Closet hangers chime discordant
Reliving California temblors
Shaken, not stirring

Clanking, rattling, as thunder recedes distant
Burdened box cars dragging past
Hissing air brake hoses
Memory of the long ago caboose

Decibels decline slowly to far away
	Senses subside
Silence and time resettle over life
The trains still run, entombing silence, vanquished
	To a distant station in time

Earth quaking power and weight (and sound).

“Peanut Line” is common railroad parlance for a short line branching off the mainline. This one began life nearly 150 years ago sprouting from Gloucester City, NJ to Mount Ephraim, NJ. Over ensuing few years it would eventually build out to Grenloch, NJ. Most of its 11 mile right of way parallels the Black Horse Pike and was responsible for development along that corridor. Business service was provided to various industries, and passenger rail allowed folks to live in the “country” while commuting to work in the cities of Camden and Philadelphia.

In the 1950s, I grew up two blocks from this rail line in Runnemede. The tracks were a source of childish recreations, endless stories, the awe of giant, thundering locomotives and friendly, waving engineers. In the early 1980s, the line was cut back to only Gloucester through Bellmawr. Now it serves two customers in the Bellmawr Industrial Park, a cardboard box manufacturer and a major bread baking factory. One train a day (or night) usually runs five or six days each week. Today, I live, and sleep, within 30 feet of the right of way. Sometimes the still of the night is rudely interrupted by the vibrancy of life everlasting.

The “Leslie” is a locomotive air horn much prized by railfan hobbyists. The “long, long, short, long” is a federally mandated horn signal as the train approaches an at-grade crossing. The “knuckle” is the linking device between rail cars.

I’m not much of a poet, but maybe this word picture will approximate the experience of a train passing nearby (and too close for comfort) in the dark stillness of night.

Given the mainline of humanity through ages, I suppose each individual life can be seen as a “peanut line.” Discuss amongst yourselves.

The Peanut Line right of way today in Blackwood, NJ has been transformed to a bicycling/walking trail with this caboose emblematic of the past.

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Proximity of train with my building.

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Hope for the best, expect the worst

Some drink champagne, some die of thirst

No way of knowing which way it’s going

Hope for the best, expect the worst!

-Mel Brooks

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Taciturn, a pretentious word, but it fits. [Habitually silent; not given to converse; not apt to talk or speak.] He looks mid-thirties, mildly unkempt and like one that life generally left behind. Captain of his checkout station, he stares into the distance, but he doesn’t seem to see anything on the outside. He carries more tonnage than fashion allows, and I’d guess his free hours engage with a video game console and nacho cheese chips. The name on his identity tag is “Josh.”

I’ve been in Josh’s checkout line before. He does not say hello or ask for your “club card” or acknowledge you in any way. He expects the items to appear on the belt so he can mindlessly pass them across the scanner, get them into bags and hand you a receipt. He could be packing pencils for shipment, bolting wheels on new cars at the factory or stacking lumber at the sawmill; just putting in the hours. I, on the other hand, usually try to interact in a cordial way. Josh typically mutters a non-response, like a 404 error in a browser. But, whatever I said on this day was magical.

“And expect the worst” was what triggered him. I’d asked if the digital coupon had been picked up for the yogurt he was scanning. “We’ll have to wait until the end,” he said, “and hope for the best.” When I said “and expect the worst,” his face instantly illuminated, humanity suddenly animated him. He actually looked me in the eye — with a surprise as if I’d blurted out his ATM PIN code for all to know. “I live my life by that philosophy,” he said, with more enthusiasm than I ever imagined he could contain.

It’s an old aphorism, probably goes back centuries. I told Josh that I was 12 years old when I first heard it. Late on a summer night, lying on the floor of my parents’ living room watching television. An old movie, from the 1940s, and the line was spoken dramatically by one of the actors, “Hope for the best, but expect the worst.” I said to Josh that I’d remembered it all my long life. I think he found it gratifying, somehow fulfilling. He may even have smiled. An unexpected human connection in a supermarket checkout lane. Let’s hope it was better than a video game.

Yes, the digital coupon worked. Still clipping coupons — and always hoping for the best.

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Same store, different checkout captain. Hector was a delightfully enthusiastic and animated supermarket worker. Nearly 10 years ago, and he’s working someplace else now.