We had gone on that dirt road too many times. Like a movie that you have watched over and over to the point where you know every dialogue, I knew each house, each tree and bush. To the right of the road was a row of tiny houses and their tiny backyards where kids played and ran bare feet and wore shorts only, and they looked dusty but they seemed happy.
Between their houses and the dirt road there was a train track, often times with a train passing by. All of that didn’t seem to scare the kids, they had learned to run along and not over the metal tracks. Even their dogs knew what to do. I tried to imagine how those people got used to the noise of trains and cars passing by their backyard.
Sitting on the back seat of a car, my window was the picture frame that separated me from the world that looked more like a movie passing by my eyes. Some days I was so touched by that poverty that I would go home and think about what could I do for those kids? My ten-year old life experience was limited on how to be useful to people who I didn’t even know yet, so I would go home and make toys out of recyclable. I would make cars out of soap boxes with wheels out of toothpaste caps, bottle caps. strings, glue, nails, paint, whatever my box of “treasures” would contain at the time. But I never delivered them. I guess my mobile movie theater never stopped on the road for me to jump over the train tracks to meet the people.
Many years passed, the road was not on our daily route anymore , I moved out-of-town, out of the state, out of the country. Time and miles have that power to send us to many different worlds where our life sometimes seems more of a movie story than real life. And the show goes on.