Railroad Workers, Jac Coffey

I come from a family of German railroad workers. Both my mother’s and father’s family worked on the Louisville to Nashville Railroad many moons ago. This sculpture reminds me how close we are to our stories. Our stories are us. We carry them. Much like these steel works of art, we repurpose, weather, witness, play, and remain. Railroad Workers connects where I live and work to where my family lived and worked.

If we are lucky, we learn about those that came before. Their stories ripple into our own like waves of generations, even ages. Their stories are our narrative DNA. Our work. Our community. Our legacy. Our love. When we learn the stories, we understand ourselves that much more. In learning our stories, we learn how beautiful and connected we are.

I was walking on the Beltline the other day. A little girl of about 4 or 5 was running along, quickly followed by someone who looked to be her grandmother. She headed toward Railroad Workers. She began to study the sculpture, mirroring their poses. She wove between them loosely playing and talking. I wondered if she began talking to her grandmother about the piece? I wondered if she began asking questions about railroads? About the workers and what they were doing? In my mind’s eye I created the story her grandmother could have told about the history of the railroad in Atlanta and what the workers were doing. I wonder about the little girl’s story. I wonder if she is learning her story. I even wonder if her story, like mine, has anything to do with the railroad.

Railroad Workers makes me a little sad. My grandparents passed away years ago. I did not ask them enough questions. I did not talk to them enough about their lives. I guess was too young and busy to truly appreciate their stories. The time we spent was precious, and I learned a lot about the details of love from them, I just did not fully learn their stories.

I think about the questions I would ask now. I would ask about their parents and grandparents. I would ask about what they liked to do for fun when they were kids and did they ever get in trouble. I would ask about what they did on Sundays and about falling in love. I would even ask about the railroad, and the railroad workers that were family.

A Note on my Atlanta Beltline Writing Project

I am practicing paying attention. I am practicing noticing beauty. I am practicing getting in touch with my artist self. I am practicing connecting with the outdoors. I am practicing my inner Mary Oliver. I live in Atlanta, “the city in a forest.” I live on the Atlanta Beltline, an interurban trail that graces the city. The Beltline is part arboretum, part art gallery, part park. It connects shops and restaurants and homes with people of all descriptions. I walk on the Beltline 4 or 5 times a week. I have spent the last year appreciating all that it is. I have personally photographed the images I will share. My hope is to write about it — its art, trees, landmarks, etc.— for the next few weeks as spring unfolds.