JUNE 12, 2024 – This morning our household woke up at 5:45—or more precisely put, our eight-year-old granddaughter woke up our household. Once the sun had peaked around the blinds, she was too excited to stay in bed. Her excitement was immediately contagious. “I thought we were getting up early for the train trip,” she said.
Yesterday evening Illiana’s parents had dropped her off, along with her luggage and her enthusiasm. While we grownups visited on the front steps, our prospective travel companion did cartwheels on the front lawn. Last year she’d accompanied us on a road trip out to Connecticut. This year, we thought she’d enjoy a train trip aboard the Empire Builder from St. Paul to Chicago and the overnight Lake Shore Limited from Chicago to Springfield, Massachusetts, where our son Byron will pick us up and drive us down to his family’s home in Chester, Connecticut. Illiana was “all in” with the idea.
This afternoon while we rolled across the countryside of southern Wisconsin, Illiana gazed out the window by our dining car table and beaming a smile announced that this was “the greatest vacation ever.”[1]
Someday our precious granddaughter will grow up and if fate will favor us on the earth’s travels around the sun, my wife and I will grow old(er). With little control over the future, we must cherish the present. Most critically, we must be present for it, embracing its fleeting and fragile substance. This is an enormous challenge because of the grand paradox of time: if past and future are of infinite duration, the present is always beginning, always ending, and always “now.”
I remember traveling extensively by the time I was Illiana’s age; Beth, as well traveled plenty—long family vacation road trips, anyway. By young ages each of us had developed clear memories of the open road and rail. We’ve traveled lots since, of course, and our combined cumulative experience provides some perspective on what might appeal to Illiana.
Already, however, what we find most delightful is to see this post-second-grader’s growing confidence and competence; even more important, her politeness and cheerfulness. As soon as we and our bags and baggage were clear of the Yellow Cab at St. Paul’s Union Depot (See 6/2/24 post), Illiana took immediate charge of her own luggage—a shoulder bag, her pink backpack, and a roller suitcase. She kept up with Beth and me as we ferried our stuff to the elevator that would take us to the main waiting area.
Upon approaching the elevator itself but before Beth—certainly I—could react, Illiana said, “We should stand to the side in case someone wants to get off.” Perhaps it was a small thing, but I wondered how many eight-year-olds would be sufficiently aware to anticipate the needs of people who might but haven’t yet appeared.
When an elevator car arrived (empty) and several other travelers joined us inside, a woman wearing stylish eyeglasses smiled at Illiana. The girl smiled back and said, “I like your glasses.”
I saw the compliment light up the woman’s face. “I like yours too,” she said to Illiana. I’ve observed Illiana use that same, effective device—a simple compliment—to break the ice with other people, a life skill that will doubtless serve her well.
When it came time to queue up and present our tickets to the gatekeeper, I had ours in hand, but Illiana asked if she could show them on our behalf. I watched as she stepped up to the counter, smile at the uniformed Amtrak official and handed off the page bearing the QR code. When we were waved in, Illiana said “Thank you” reflexively but convincingly. Again, maybe not so remarkable, but I noticed her confidence and initiative—after second grade, greatly enhanced from a year ago.
Aboard the Empire Builder, Illiana was engaged and occupied every mile of the scenic journey. Beth, ever the master at collecting (and organizing) fun, instructive, and creative drawing, writing, and reading materials, had well-supplied our expedition. Illiana worked through these with her usual vigor[2]. Likewise, games—word and cards; I was too enthralled by Beth and Illiana’s game-playing intensity to join them. What a delightful gift to watch an eight-year-old play “Go Fish” with her much loved grandmother—aboard a gently rocking train[3]. (Cont.)
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
