Column

More than once, I’ve been told, “You were born a century too late.” And quite frankly, I think it’s a valid statement.

It was dark and crisp. A railfan stood perched, staring down the tracks, with camera and scanner in hand. The sun began to rise over the horizon, blanketing the tracks with shades of yellow and orange.

Standing at the railroad crossing on South Royal Street, a faint, almost distant whistle from a freight train breaks the day’s silence.