All That Is Forgotten

Shattered remnants of alcohol induced lonely nights littered the desolate area in and around the twisted tracks. These rusted rails once enabled dreams and adventures of the past, now blown away with the winter wind. A past shared by many generations, forgotten in a society of of the new and the now. Life had abandoned the one place that, not even one hundred years ago, used to be bustling with people from across the city every hour of every day: the Petaluma Railroad Station.

Across a desolate parking lot, the old station house had been transformed into a new art center. The center which had thought to be a good idea turned out nothing more than a wasted effort. The quaint little building seemed so unnatural in the decaying scene around it. The revamping of the station was to bring back life: the only life to be seen was weeds popping up between the broken concrete. The cars passing by saw not the work that was put into it, but the lifelessness that was prominent. The station seemed to be almost haunted; I almost expected to see a ghost of conductor wander past, looking for the lost path which he dreamt of following.

Even broad daylight couldn't brighten the place up; the overwhelming sense of decay would overwhelm anyone, including myself. The dull colors and the cold wind and the broken glass with stories hidden with each shard sent chills through me. As I sat on one of the new benches oddly placed for a direct view of an empty lot, an overwhelming sense of sadness grew as I looked out upon the lifeless space. I thought of all the work--the time and effort, the sweat and blood, the wishes and dreams-- the people of my great grandfather's generations put into theses tracks just to have the trains sit, unused and rusting away. Not only was the work gone to waste, but the common people of Petaluma these days don't even appreciate this little slice of history we have within our reach.

Even the things that were alive seemed dead. There was one solo tree, bare of leaves, unhealthy, just as dead as the jagged rocks surrounding it. The fading colors on the old train car showed how time had taken it's heavy toll. However, there was one sign of life: a pile of wooden beams with a space just small enough for a person beneath it, which was filled with old liquor bottles and Taco Bell wrappers. The only people that dared venture into this empty, haunted space were the homeless, dreams as dead as the metal tracks themselves. Drowning themselves in liquor to quench their sorrows, wishing there would be a train to come and pick them up from their miserable lives, but ultimately sitting alone with the ghost of dreams past.

The art center was not more alive than the rocks, as the rocks could be painted themselves and called art. The old train car was of more prominence then the little adobe building, as the little adobe building was just as plain as the barren tree. The juxtaposition of the art center to the decaying tracks was much like the “Peace Pole”, a piece of art stationed near the tree with “May Peace Prevail on Earth” in six different languages upon it, to the side of the crumbling train car, which had markings and tags of many gangs upon it. It left me asking myself, was the center meant to add beauty or to highlight which was dead?

Several busy roads surrounded the conflicting scene, but yet, as I watched the drivers pass by, not one soul glanced upon the place. Rushed, busied, consumed- the drivers thought not about the tales that could be told from their surroundings, but about where they needed to be. The little lost train car was obsolete, never to be glanced at again, due to the new and now, the technology that surpasses any thoughts of our great grandfather's generation, life, and world. Not too far away from the old station, a large, white, colorful sign said “New, SMART TRAIN coming to Sonoma County!” Not only was the little train car forgotten, but soon to be replaced with something shiny and new that would clear the dust and grime of our city's past.

Plastered upon the sides of the doomed train car were signs that said “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing” to keep the homeless from moving into the dilapidated structure, but it read more than that to me. “Keep Out” stuck over the painted lettering that once read clearly “Keep Truckin' On By Train!” told the tale of time and the nature of humans itself. As time went on, humans abandoned what consumed whole life spans to make and simply posting “Keep Out” upon it as to make it fade out into the background completely. Just as our past, our grandfather's past, and our great grandfather's past are slowly fading away from what life is now to just a faint memory, soon to be forgotten in the plains of time.

As the matters stand, the times have changed. The little forgotten train car will soon fade away into the past, just as so many other pieces of history have and will to be replaced by the newest invention on the market. Although trains were replaced by planes and cars, workers in factories were replaced by automated machines, and the ideals of our ancestors replaced by our own, history still stands firm as proof that the times were real. While the citizens of Petaluma will hardly glance upon, if ever, the old train station will still remain part of a tangible past, part of my past, forever more.

- Jenna F.