The Story Behind the Picture

I searched for a while trying to find a picture I wanted to use for this blog, and while not using a picture is always an option, I'm one of those people who prefer graphics of some sort. Maybe it's the idea of a picture being worth a thousand words. I don’t plan on writing a thousand words, but I thought I’d offer an explanation as to why I chose this one.

The picture above was taken in 1978 at East Park in Mason City, Iowa. I was four years old, and those are two of my cousins peeking out on the left. The train had a stair and handrail attached, but beyond that it was a parent’s nightmare. There were open, jagged gashes with rusted edges (you can see a huge one right below us) throughout which threatened tetanus—at best—for any of us foolish enough to ignore our parents’ instructions to be careful. If you consider crawling beyond anyplace with handholds, scaling the side to stand at the very top, and jumping from one point to another with no safety guard as being careful, then we were being quite careful indeed. Not only were we aware of the torn metal, but we would stop to inspect some of them, kicking them with our ragged tennis shoes, and sometimes even used them as the hand and footholds to some of the higher-altitude vantage points otherwise unreachable. We climbed all over that deathtrap for most of the day, and the details are vague, fuzzy action sequences which have blended together—likely because no one ever did get hurt. The one thing that still stands out clear in my memory is the turd.

Our early explorations of the train began in the obvious places: the flat surfaces of the cab and attached coal bin. I don’t recall which one of us made the discovery, but there was a summons to “come look at this” and we were all huddled in the back corner of the coal bin over an especially wide gash in the metal panel. Nestled in the shadows was a pristine turd, relatively large (but everything from childhood memories seems bigger) and so unnaturally perfect and alone that it could have been a novelty gag item—none of us inspected it closely enough to confirm otherwise, but still highly unlikely. We laughed and threatened to push each other—or some other equally effective method of making each other touch it—and once we got tired of all that, we continued the exploration and games. But now, rather than focusing on the clear threat presented by jagged shreds of metal, the area that commanded our cautious respect was the corner of the coal bin and the turd therein. Whatever we did, the last thing we wanted to do was lose our heads and accidentally touch the turd or the day would be ruined.

The point is, when I see this picture—or for that matter, whenever I drive down State Street past East Park and see the restored train with its confining chain-link fence—I can bring up memories of that time, that place, and who was there. My memories aren’t exactly crystal clear, but as sad as it may sound, it’s the memory of the turd that allows the rest to endure. It’s a strange element to pick out and hold on to, even if it’s only my subconscious to blame, but I’ve eventually come to realize that occurrences like this are convincing reasons for me to pursue writing. As a writer, that turd not only anchors my memories of that day’s events, but it’s also a catalyst that makes me ponder its back story. How did it end up there? Was it a drug- or alcohol-fueled act of juvenile vandalism? Maybe there was an adventurous couple excited by the danger of having a late-night tryst in the train, only to have one of them ruin the mood (or maybe not?) by having a bowel movement right there. Or maybe it was a vagrant who used the train since the public restrooms were locked after park hours. Maybe it was only a novelty item planted by a mischievous uncle who ended up being disappointed by our significant lack of reaction. There are all sorts of potential explanations, and without the luxury of knowing for sure, I get to choose one and run with it. To retell the story of that day on the train without the turd would be boring (assuming it’s not boring now) because there wouldn’t be anything to make it stand out, to defamiliarize what would otherwise be a run-of-the-mill family get-together.

If my career as a writer ever takes off, I’ll have to write a book on the craft of fiction and throw a revised version of this post in as an introductory chapter.

The book’s title will be The Golden Turd: When Paint Can Increase Value.