Good morning, America, how are you?
Say don’t you know me, I’m your native son
I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans
I’ll be gone 500 miles when the day is done
I rode Amtrak last week, taking the route “The Empire Builder,” to Whitefish, Montana. The Portland station is a step back in time. It has long wooden benches, neon signs, and the name of the route itself redolent of our violent past when men, women, and children and the land itself were blasted away to make way for our future. That “magic carpet made of steel” has led us to where we are now. Like a lot of folks, I thought that this song was written by Arlo Guthrie. Steve Goodman, a close friend of Arlo, wrote the song on a train trip with his new wife. He had just been diagnosed with leukemia, which soon killed him at the age of thirty-seven. Judy Collins’ version always felt like a story of mourning to me, and now I know that Goodman’s deep awareness of his own mortality became the story of the demise of the railway he rode. He could see the future and maybe how things might go for us, too.
Passin’ trains that have no names’
Freight yards full of old Black men
And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles
We rode the train to visit Glacier National Park. We took a sleeper car, although that is a complete misnomer. Sleeping on a train? Mr. Goodman? Nope! It’s loud and rocks unevenly, horn blaring at every crossing, no matter the time. That said, the observation car was heaven, and all the folks you’re riding with? There’s a camaraderie. “Where you headed?” It felt friendly as we all gawked at Mt. Hood across the span of whitecaps on the Columbia River Gorge, the rainbow kites of surfers dotting the sky.
Mothers with their babes asleep
Are rockin’ to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel
When national parks were being dreamed up, artists and writers were offered free train trips to visit the parks so they could better spread this slogan through their art: “See America First!” Once WWI began, travel to Europe was difficult or impossible. Most of the buildings at Glacier resemble Swiss Chalets. Even up in Canada, the Prince of Wales Hotel feels as though it was lifted straight from the Alps. Americans had to stay stateside, and there were plenty of beautiful landscapes to see. American artists encouraged folks to explore this beautiful country. Hidden lakes, uplifted rock thousands of feet high, moose, grizzlies, bald eagles.
There’s a gentleness to traveling by train. The trip softened the little news I was aware of unfolding around me. I loved walking up to “Old Ironsides,” and boarding using an old-fashioned step stool that the steward placed beneath my feet. He took my hand and helped me up into that silver car. I’m ready for more of that gentleness, that community and care.
All aboard!
Good night, America, how are you
Don’t you know me I’m your native son
I’m the train they call The City of New Orleans
I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done