Riding American Rails, Part 4: Of A Homeward Persuasion


The season of mashed potato sandwich leftovers and reminiscing over family dinners is two hours away from being past tense. Only moments ago we finished quite the dinner with the Zabielski’s, Tristans favorite grandparents with a Pittsburgh address. The Church Brew Works, an historic landmark and former Catholic church turned brewery/eatery, was kind enough to serve as our protection from the cold for just enough hours to make the night’s wait for the train bearable and we ate delicious assortments of ravioli, pierogi and pot pies, all tasty for sure but priced as though Jesus himself might have cooked them. Beers and laughs and spinach dip were shared into the night. It was a welcome break for myself, a culmination of a weekend spent making all too merry, all too early into the morning night. Or perhaps just deep into the night enough.

I’ve amassed a loyal crowd of friends, some dating way back to my high schoolian heydays, and we’ve developed ourselves a more than healthy propensity for doing our lion’s share to keep the alcohol industry from ever needing a bail out. Though as the years turn into full blown decades my body’s willingness to play along with my hoppy heart’s desires has waned, and while a Thanksgiving weekend’s worth of nights does much good for my soul, it’s with a steady sigh of relief that my liver looks up with waiting eyes as the clock ticks down the minutes to our deliverance back into Southern spa of a Texan winter. It’s with anxious lungs that we’re both holding our breath, desperate to be in those seats, on those rails to take us back to our lady in waiting.

48 hours to go, or so…