Insomnia and Train Whistles

A few nights ago I was awake in the middle of the night, one of those nights when I could not sleep. About 1:38 am, I heard a train whistle cry mournfully through the dark. And I got to thinking about all the train whistles I’ve heard through the years.

My earliest memory of a train whistle blowing was in Klamath Falls, Oregon, when I stayed with my maternal grandparents. They lived on Pacific Terrace just a few blocks from the tracks, and trains went through this logging town frequently in the late 1950s. I would be in bed in my grandparents’ house—just like I was in my own home a few nights ago—and the whistle would blow as a train rolled through town.

I also remember many times when my grandfather had to stop his Ford Thunderbird at the railroad crossing. The arm of the crossing guard descended, and we sat waiting for what seemed an interminable time. If we were on our way to get ice cream, it probably was an interminable time to my preschool mind.

I remember hearing other whistles during my childhood. They sounded when we rode the train between Klamath Falls and Corvallis, Oregon. They sounded cheerful if I was on my way to my grandparents, and sorrowful if we were headed home.

I heard the whistles when my father drove us along highways that paralleled the railroad tracks. The engineers and the guys in the caboose waved back at kids who waved at them, and it wasn’t unheard of for the engineer to toot the whistle as we passed.

Kansas City, where I live now, is another city with a long railroad history and many whistles. Our home is not too far from what is now the Burlington Northern Santa Fe (BNSF) switching station and rail yard. I don’t know which railroads merged with which over the years to create BNSF, but the trains still roll into town and the yard around the switching station is always full of them. There must be a dozen or more parallel sets of tracks where the container cars are routed on their paths to their final destinations.

The main BNSF line runs through downtown Parkville, Missouri, on its approach to the rail yard. My husband and I often have dinner in Parkville. Sometimes, if we linger, we hear three trains rumble through between the time we reach the restaurant and the time we leave. Each train blows its whistle as it approaches the crossing at Main Street, where Main Street leads to English Landing Park on the Missouri River. The trains pass so nearby that the restaurant shakes. And if we have finished eating before the last one passes, sometimes we must wait for the train before we can return to our car for the drive home.

When my children were small, one of my detours on my commute between their grade school and my office was on Front Street, just south of the river off Chouteau Trafficway. That route went through the Kansas City Southern rail yard. There, too, more than a dozen tracks organize container cars before they leave the railroad’s hub.

On Front Street twenty years ago, like in Parkville now and in Klamath Falls over half a century ago, people and cars must wait for trains. The size and speed of these behemoths give them the advantage. They can warn us of their passing with loud and soulful whistles, but we must pay heed.

What memories do train whistles evoke for you?