The little building sat on the end of a lonely gravel road, in the distance the lights of Milwaukee shone. On the door a weathered sign read “The Hiawatha Room” across from the Hiawatha Room an old railway station sat poised in a state of failing repair. Inside a coffee warmer dispensed the plain black “Nectar of the gods” an old leather couch sat near the counter, on a table nearby was a stack of old newspapers gathering dust. To one side a coal burning fireplace warmed the room, and the proprietor told stories of how, during the darkest days of the depression he himself stole coal from passing trains. A massive tube radio supplied whatever music was on the station that it’s tuner had been stuck on since 1931. When a traveler came into to wait for the train he or she would pay for a cup coffee at the counter and the sit on the couch to read or sleep which since most people came in at night was quite common. At the counter if it was any variety of cold sandwich you could order it.
Back in 1942 a group of GIs boarded an eastbound troop train, amidst the flurried goodbyes and the crying mothers and sweethearts they were mustered aboard. And again when it was filled with crying mothers when the Missing in action or Killed in action telegrams arrived via the train station. And finally it was filled with wives mothers and sweethearts when the lucky few returned.
In the dust on the walls there was generations of small-town history when the “H” room met its end the town mourned the old waiting room’s like the loss of a friend. Old timers used to say that “travelers come and go but the Hiawatha is forever” but of course nothing is forever.
1 Comment
December 22, 2007 at 4:45 am
i love your writing!