When I was growing up, summer vacation meant not only freedom from school, but a trip to California. Not only a trip, but a train trip! During the 60's, travel by rail was still the way to fly, and such names as the Santa Fe Super Chief and the San Francisco Zephyr fired the imagination with the promise of untold adventure. This was way before the government had to step in and nationalize the passenger train system, and the AT&SF still ran from coast to coast. And these vacations were not a quick trip out, a few days at Disneyland, and a slow trip back. My mom's whole family lived in California, my grandparent's, aunts and uncles, cousins, and good friends, and we spent two to three months in LA. My grandparents managed an apartment complex in Canoga Park, and if there was an empty unit, we would get to stay there, and if not, my mom took the guest room, and the five kids took turns sleeping on hide-a-beds, couches, or wrapped in blankets on the floor. We lived like the Angelinos, swimming in the pool with the other residents, grocery shopping at Ralph's, and palling around with the kids from the neighborhood.
Now here's the thing. My dad was a young lawyer at the time and couldn't be away from the office for that long, so he would drive by himself cross country and meet us out there. And during the two weeks that he came out, that is when we'd do the tourist stuff. The big one for sure was Disneyland, the uncontested "Happiest Place On Earth," but also, Knott's Berry Farm, Magic Mountain, Farmer's Market, jaunts down to San Diego and Tijuana, once a trip up to Frisco. Then he'd head back and we'd finish our stay. At the time, us kids had no idea of the sacrifice he made in money, time, physical endurance, and loneliness, but the memories had a huge part in making me the person I am today.
Back to the trains. I remember having a sleeping compartment only once and it was cramped and inconvenient. I much preferred travelling by coach. The freedom of movement, the camaraderie with the fellow passengers, eating in the dining car, spending the day in the club car playing cards and watching the endless scenery roll by, and the stop in Albuquerque where we were allowed to get off the train and buy handicrafts from actual Indians (they were not Native Americans in those days). My brother and I loved hanging out with the porters as they stood by the open windows in the lower baggage compartments. One year when I was about thirteen, I wrote a poem that my parents suggested I submit to Santa Fe. They had a full-color employee magazine and a short while later I received a letter on corporate stationery congratulating me and telling me that they were publishing the poem. I received a copy of the magazine, that alas I no longer have. I do remember that the poem started, "Trains are better the boats I think, because a train is hard to sink...." Our excitement rose as palm trees and stucco buildings replaced the cactus and adobe shacks of the desert. When we disembarked at the Pasadena train station, we could still feel the swaying of the cars as we ran to greet our grandparents.
