Writing Forums

Writing Forums is a privately-owned, community managed writing environment. We provide an unlimited opportunity for writers and poets of all abilities, to share their work and communicate with other writers and creative artists. We offer an experience that is safe, welcoming and friendly, regardless of your level of participation, knowledge or skill. There are several opportunities for writers to exchange tips, engage in discussions about techniques, and grow in your craft. You can also participate in forum competitions that are exciting and helpful in building your skill level. There's so much more for you to explore!

A Small Slice of Life Piece (1 Viewer)

Thomas Wolfe told us:
“You can’t go home again”
How very true that is.

My last year of high school I took a train trip across the country
to visit my birthplace (Albany, New York). The trip was quite
an adventure, having never taken such a long train trip before.
The scenery was magnificent, the people I met were interesting
and the food was excellent (if somewhat expensive).

We had a layover, of several hours, in Chicago where we also
changed trains. I left the station, intending to explore the “windy
city”, but there wasn’t much to see near the train station, and I
didn’t know my way around the city, so just ended up going to
a movie to kill the time until I had to board the next train for the
final leg of my journey.

I don’t remember a train station in Albany, so I believe I had to
take a bus, that part of the trip is buried behind some cobwebs in
my mind. Anyway, I do remember going to see my old house
on Dot Avenue, which seemed much smaller than I remembered.
I walked through the underground tunnel to cross the street so I
could see my old school, and the familiar smell of the disinfectant
brought back a rush of nostalgia, finally something familiar.

Later, I went to the old park where my grandparents used to take us to
watch the boats and play the games in the penny (yes it was only
a penny back then) arcade. The boats were dry-docked and the arcade
was boarded up. The lake was still there, but it just was not the same.

Finally, I went to look for the old ice cream parlor where you used to
buy a dish of ice cream (your choice of flavor) and then “build” your
own sundae. What a marvelous concept—they had a long table covered
with any sort of topping you could imagine, and you could take as much
as you wanted of any topping you wanted. I think the ice cream parlor
is now a pizza parlor, there must be more money in that business.

The train ride home seemed much longer than the one going. And as I
closed my eyes and let the clackety-clack of the track lull me to sleep,
I dreamed of Albany, but the Albany I dreamed of was 1952.
 
Top