My mother was an engineer for the railroads...not
the locomotive engineer, mind you, but a structural, practical and
versatile engineer. She would design tricky trestles along sheer drops, or
tunnels through thin shale, or dense granite...it was unheard of in her time.
In fact, she often, in order to avoid the aggravation, would use the male derivative of her name EMILY, and went by EMILE instead.
In correspondence it worked regularly, and without question and since her job
called for extensive travel, she avoided facing the opposition and inquisition. On one occasion
when she ( he) was invited to a social engagement of the most influential rail
and political folk, she came as ‘his wife’ with regrets out of respect, since
he had just that day fallen ill, and too late to send notice. She charmed them
and they sent her off with their best wishes for his speedy recovery. "Such
a good man..."
She could have had her way with, or her choice of, many a
gentrified gent, but she chose my dad instead. He laid track ... little more than
an endured laborer. She bore no prejudice to any man or woman that held their
own. She counted among her friends those that spoke only Chinese, and learned
the language in their camps. Pop would sit at those same fires, sharing those
simple meals, and here came she, down from her railroad car, on that executive
train, to sit in the dirt and share. She would often bring down food from the
galley car, good food, about to be thrown away, but not if she could help it.
And so, one night they came to smile at each other across an open fire, and
sparks flew. If Mom was a rail, then dad was a tie, and mom must have liked
them rough hewn, because they didn't come much rougher than the old man.
It wasn't meant to last. Neither of them were about to relinquish
their lives to the other, too proud, too stubborn, too driven...but driven in
opposite directions. And since mother’s life had some meaning, and dad was just
happy to meander...we went with mom. Where else?
Mother eventually came to find the best of both worlds in a man
named Patterson, who we called 'Pat'...a simple, bigheaded ‘panner’ from Eureka
who struck a huge load, and became a homely, lonely, high-roller in ' Frisco, back in its heyday.
We remember Pat as a good and trusting man. He raised us and paid
for us through college and more, even though Mother left him years before.
Mother is the one that couldn't be trusted. Always another bridge
to build, man to bed, or tunnel to bore.
We were her boys ,what were we to do? We tagged along...even a stint in Peru. It was a sad
parade of clowns, she entertained and dragged us through. So it should come as no surprise that
when we were of age we quickly got away - first Jimmy to the Dakotas, and me,
the other way. I went island-hopping for many year, before finally landing in
Oahu. Jim joined me for his last twelve, and now he sits there upon my shelf,
right next to mom. They wait for me, and when I die, we three shall be mixed,
and stirred, and tossed to the sea, where something tells me, we'll reunite with the old man eventually.
V
