RICH: The magical romance of trains

Published 9:00 am Sunday, February 16, 2025

Whenever Tink and I visit Greenwood, Mississippi, one of our favorite places, we stay at the small Alluvian Hotel.

“Please, Denise,” I ask the front desk manager, “put us as close to the train as possible.”

She laughs delightedly. “Miss Ronda, you’re the only person who ever wants the room nearest the trains. Most people ask to be as far away.”

Trains run through Greenwood several times a day and at night. They blow their whistles as they pass through. I stop whatever I’m doing, close my eyes and listen, appreciatively. It’s music to my ears.

I love trains.

Miss Virgie, who hails from Pascagoula, Mississippi, is my Southern mentor. She believes in white paper doilies placed properly on silver serving pieces, thank you notes written on heavy stock, engraved paper, monogrammed everything, and the romance of trains and New Orleans.

It was, in fact, Miss Virgie who introduced me to the charm of something called “railroad silver.” She mentioned, one day, that she had just purchased a giant soup tureen from an antiques dealer and how gorgeous it was. 

“What is railroad silver?” I asked.

She, who has theoretically adopted me as the child she never had, a Southern daughter worth investing in, launched eagerly into the explanation. It is, she explained, the silver-plated hollowware and flatware that railroads used in their first-class dining cars during the heyday of train travel in the 1930s, 40s and 50s. Each railroad line ordered its own ornate, specially-designed silver, stamped on the bottom with its name such as Pacific Union or Southern.

Immediately, I was intrigued by the romance of it all: women in padded, broad-shoulder suits and hats that perched at an angle on their heads; and of men with wide, long ties and double-breasted suit coats — and I wonder if a star like Ava Gardner or Betty Grable might have touched a piece of that old, somewhat scratched and worn silver. 

Many years ago, I took a yearning for a train trip.

And that is how I wound up on Amtrak’s Crescent, a silver bullet of a train, headed from Georgia across Alabama and Mississippi to wind up in New Orleans. One morning, I left my house at 6:15 a.m. then pulled into the train depot at 6:40. No hassle, no security lines, no folks rushing hectically — the unpleasant parts of travel.

I walked into the station and was greeted by Lucille, queen of the depot, who was sitting on a bench, doing needlepoint. 

“Getcha’ an Amtrak luggage tag over there and put it on your bags.” 

I did as I was told then settled down on the bench next to her. I peppered her with questions about the train, explaining it was my first trip. Patiently, she answered, proud of what she knew that I didn’t, prouder even that she had 37 years with the railroad. “The train leaves at 6:58, what time does it get here?”

“Oh, ‘bout 6:58.”

I did a double take. “6:58? That’s not much time to board.”

“Girl, you better grab them bags and jump on that thang ‘cause it don’t stay long.”

Advice heeded, I scampered aboard the Crescent, settled into a roomy compartment and, like the child I once was, watched with wonderment as we passed through towns I had visited previously but never seen from the railroad tracks. Atlanta. Anniston, Alabama. Birmingham. Tuscaloosa. Meridian. Hattiesburg. Slidell, Louisiana. And finally, the always-enticing city of New Orleans (by the way, the train that runs from NO up, to Chicago, is called the City of New Orleans). I loved every mile.              

Romantics love the allure of trains. Countless black and white movies show love either arriving or leaving in the smoke-billowing, wheel-squeaking, whistle-blowing of a train. Every time Dolly Parton leaves her lover in a song, she goes on a train, not a plane.

Is there anyone more romantic than Dolly? 

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell mysteries including the new one: Sapelo Island.