Parallel Lines

It is strange how the mind can play tricks. When I stare down the train tracks, I’m standing on, I could swear the left and right ribbons of steel join, becoming one at the horizon. Of course, the logical part of my brain tells me such a thing is impossible, but could it be that just this once my eyes aren’t betraying me? Are the mathematical laws of the universe always unwavering? In my life, I have observed other constants abruptly evaporate, allowing random chaos to rule, so why shouldn’t parallel lines, for just a moment, meet somewhere in the distance?

The house my parents rented when I was a pre-teen had a set of railroad tracks running past the backyard. I would often finish my morning chores and walk the tracks for what felt like miles. In those days, children could explore their corner of the world as long as they were back before supper. The era of helicopter parents had not yet emerged. I walked on the right side when leaving my yard, striding from tie to tie or balancing on the rail itself, and then repeated the process on the left side to return home. Occasionally, I would stop and place a hand or ear on the rail, attempting to detect the slightest vibration, which told me a train would pass soon.

Once in a while, I would dig up some worms, place the slithery critters in an old tin can, and take them, along with my fishing pole, to a stream that meandered near the tracks. On good days, I would catch hornpout or an infrequent brook trout. On other days, when the fish weren’t biting, I would lay back on the creek bank and watch the clouds drift by. I searched the formations for shapes of animals and whatever else my mind could conjure up.

There were no other children living in the area, so my imagination became my best friend. We had grand adventures as I traveled along the ribbons of steel, fending off terrifying swamp creatures, usually frogs or groundhogs, and discovering structures from lost civilizations—which in reality were piles of used railroad ties and an abandoned water tower. It’s amazing the worlds a nine-year-olds imagination can construct out of next to nothing.

One day, while returning home on the left side of the track, I saw a man walking along the right side. The stranger was unwashed and unshaven. His clothes were torn, stained, and riddled with holes. He appeared large, but most adults looked big to a nine-year-old. The man walked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. My first reaction was to run and hide in the tall grass until the stranger passed. I’ve never been a person to run away from anything, even though occasionally, that would have been the smarter move. I steadied my nerves, summoned my courage, and marched forward, one hand in my right pocket clutching my jackknife, thumb positioned to push open the blade, the other hand carrying my fishing pole.

As we drew closer, our eyes met, and he nodded his head in greeting and smiled. I could tell this bedraggled old man meant me no harm. I released my knife, withdrew my hand from my pocket, and returned his smile along with a friendly wave.

We both stopped walking, opposite each other. Him on the right, me on the left, the space between parallel lines keeping us apart.

“Hello, sir! My name is Billy and I live in the house you passed.”

“Nice to meet you, Billy! My name is Chester, but you may call me Chet. I see you have a fishing pole. Do you catch much in there?” gesturing toward the stream.

“Some days are better than others. Today was a good day. Do you fish?”

“Used to, but my pole broke a while ago and I haven’t had a chance to buy a new one. Maybe I’ll replace it the next time I come to a town. Well, I guess we better move along now. I’m sure your mother will want you home in time to clean up for supper and I need to find a campsite before it gets dark.”

Billy stared at Chet for a moment then reached a decision. He unlatched a stringer of freshly caught fish from his belt loop and stepped across the gap momentarily linking parallel lines.

“I bet you would like some fresh fish for dinner.” With an outstretched arm, Billy offered the stringer to Chet, explaining that his family had all the fish they needed at home.

“That is very generous of you, Billy, but I’m afraid I don’t have any money to pay you.”

“I’m not looking for payment. These fish were free for the catching which means I can give them to you for free. You know, one fisherman to another.”

 He smiled and took the fish. “Thank you, Billy! You are truly a kind soul.”

I crossed back over to the left side of the tracks while he stayed on the right. We each continued on our way, parallel paths once again re-established.

I had forgotten about this encounter until today. Standing on this section of track, I watched as a group of boys gathered in the field up ahead. I wondered if any of them would experience a time when parallel lines would merge, not just to play a game, but to make a difference in a fellow traveler’s life.

Everyone spends their days traveling parallel paths with those around us. We acknowledge their presence but continue on with no actual connection to the ones passing by. It’s only when someone attempts to merge the lines, even for a moment, that we can actually make a difference.

I never saw Chet again. I would like to think that after we parted, he re-established his life, possibly taking up fishing as a hobby. One thing I know for sure, he had a good meal the day our parallel lines momentarily became one.