The Little Boy who Loves the Red Train

Nearly everyday I see a little boy about 3 or 4 with his mother getting on the morning train in to Wellington.  At 7:40 AM he is full of energy while his poor mom tries to keep up.  She is a young mother and sometimes I think she just doesn’t know what to do with this little man in her life.  She carries two large bags—one for him and one for her.  She’s tired and I think a little self conscious of the small child who likes to run around the station making car noises.

At this particular time in morning, Wellington’s older train comes to our station.  Most of these cars are from the 1950’s or 60’s.  They have old electric lights (the kind with real bulbs and not fluorescents), decorative metal vent covers, and those seats that flip direction so the rider can always face front on a train that can go either direction.  Wellington has a pretty large fleet of these aging carriages.  But it has precious few red carriages.  These are the original trains of the metro line.  The old “Cyclops” carriages and they are kept their original fire engine red colour.  The train may have only 3 of these carriages in a line of 12 cars for the morning rush.  They end up clustered together usually in the middle or the back of the train.

The little boy loves these red carriages like Christmas.  I think it might actually be that strong a love.  He runs in circles when he sees the red cars at the end of the line yelling “Yay! Yah! Red carriage!”  No matter how large the crowd is in the morning, he must be the first to leap on board.  He never waits for help even though the step over the gap is just large enough to make my parent instincts cringe.  Mum often waits at the back to get on.  But most days there are no red carriages or, even worse, they are at the front.  Tired mom isn’t going to run to the front where they would both end up standing for the ride around the harbour.  Oh the terrible tiny outrage on these days.  He yells at the train and gives it copious rassberries—and those are the good days.  On bad days he’ll refuse to board or simply wail forcing tired mom to drag him screaming aboard.  I’m sure she feels terrible.

Some day I will tell her that I don’t mind—that her little boy is wonderful.  Days will roll by in to years and all too soon there will be no more leaps of joy at the red train.  After a few more years, she will even miss the tantrums.  I may see if I can find a toy red carriage.  I hope she doesn’t mind.  I hope she doesn’t find it strange that I might have watery eyes laughing at the little boy that loves the red train.