加载中…
美丽的语言+美丽的画面---About John and his letters
(2007-03-10 13:58:18) 英国人每次写信的确象传说中的那样,先是三个长长的自然段谈论天气,
有趣的很~~然后就是生活琐事.最有意思的就是不厌其烦的给我讲述他小时候的故事.比如二战时,英国被轰炸的那天,他们全家如何逃跑啊;他的舅舅在战争中的英雄事迹啊;他的女儿啊;
还有讲他的童年.也许是人老了的缘故吧,他给我讲了很多他小时候的事情,每封信写过来都有word文档七八页那么长.英国人做事严谨是出了名的,他用的英语都很标准,从不用缩写,从不用俚语,上次我写信给他说I've
gotta...时,他还说要给我一个"mild criticism, because words such as "gotta"
are American slang and have no room in 真的很庆幸能有一个这样好的好朋友好导师.但是,说真话,我不止一次地想到:万一有一天他突然去世了,我不知道,而从此信箱里再也没有他的信了,我该怎么办...再也没有了,再也没有了...然后我就很害怕.真的.惶恐的感觉....From John, a most fabulous friend from the other side of the
world...
"Last night I had my dream again. I think I told you about it;
the one about Trentham Gardens Station. I’ve not had it for about a
year now, but last night it happened again.
Trentham was the place where I used to live as a child. It had a railway station, but the station closed in the 1960s. The station drive used to open out onto the road, but me and my sister Julie approached it through the hawthorn hedge, across the field and over the fence into station property. After a few yards the grass suddenly gave way into a deep cutting overlooking the track and the station, with steep paths down into it.
The dream opens with me, aged about 10, and my younger sister Julie standing on a deserted platform, looking up along the slight slope of the railway track into the distance where, about a mile away, the single track disappears over the hill. We both have a feeling of anticipation and Julie is chattering away about nothing. I am studying the top of the track. Suddenly, there it is- a puff of white smoke on the horizon, just to one side of the track. As the white puff moves over to the centre we both stare in silence, then I am aware that Jules is clinging to my arm tightly. The white stain against the blue sky rises, and then there is a smudge of black beneath. The engine seems to rise out of the ground, pauses for a few seconds, poised on the track. Why has it stopped? But it has not- we are aware that it is getting bigger and bigger. At first we can see nothing but the engine, but as it travels down the track the three coaches appear into view behind it, like a snake moving towards us. Jules screams, but it is not a scream of fear, it is excitement because we know what will follow.
There the dream ended, Juan, and I awoke in the silence of the night with a sense of overwhelming sadness, so much that I felt the tears in my eyes, followed by uncontrollable sobbing, there alone in the night. What does it all mean? I don’t know, but it is the same every time.
But I can still remember those days very well. The train getting bigger and bigger, the whistle hoot, then the noise, the steam all around us, the screech of the brakes as we run along the platform alongside the engine, the driver waving. The engine stops and the driver climbs down and drops between the engine and leading carriage to unfasten the chain, then, as the passengers are walking along the platform he helps us up the five foot ladder into his cab. It is summer so he leaves the short metal folding door open and instead closes a chain. The smell of the smoke and steam and coal dust fills our nostrils, and everything we touch leaves a smudge on our hands. He lifts Jules to a lavatory chain in the roof and Jules knows what to do. She pulls it time after time and with each pull there is a loud whistle. A passenger turns to look inside the cab, and smiles. The driver pulls at levers, then tells me to turn this wheel -and- magic! Steam screeches and hisses, there is a clang and a chatter and the engine moves forward and into the loop. The driver then takes over. The engine stops while the driver changes levers and wheels, then moves backwards as the coaches slide by on our right. The fire man keeps an eye on us because the driver is too busy. At the end of the loop the engine stops, shudders a little, then eases forwards, very slowly, so slowly as it approaches the coaches. Then the best part- the clang and thump as the engine hits the buffers of the rear coach, now the leading coach.
Then it is all over. We are helped out of the cab; after a few minutes the whistle blows again and we watch as the train pulls back up the hill. We wave and shout until we are hoarse, until the back of the rear coach disappears into the ground.
This happened on summer Saturday and Sunday afternoons when we could get away.
A couple of years later the station was closed and fell into disrepair, and the track was used to store old wagons awaiting disposal. At that time I was working on a farm and, in the winter when the cows didn’t need to be taken in for milking I walked alongside those wagons to the farm, up that hill, to the point at the top which was a bridge over the road, then scrambled down the very steep bank on to the road.
At some point vandals managed to unhook some of the wagons and they rolled down the line, smashed through the buffers at the end of the track, and almost on to the road where there was a very tall wall holding back the embankment at end of the track. It took a long time to recover those wagons and from that point no more wagons were stored.
I found an old map of Trentham on the internet and it clearly shows the Trentham Gardens branch line. It shows the station as Trentham Park Station, but you and I know the truth, don’t we?"
Trentham was the place where I used to live as a child. It had a railway station, but the station closed in the 1960s. The station drive used to open out onto the road, but me and my sister Julie approached it through the hawthorn hedge, across the field and over the fence into station property. After a few yards the grass suddenly gave way into a deep cutting overlooking the track and the station, with steep paths down into it.
The dream opens with me, aged about 10, and my younger sister Julie standing on a deserted platform, looking up along the slight slope of the railway track into the distance where, about a mile away, the single track disappears over the hill. We both have a feeling of anticipation and Julie is chattering away about nothing. I am studying the top of the track. Suddenly, there it is- a puff of white smoke on the horizon, just to one side of the track. As the white puff moves over to the centre we both stare in silence, then I am aware that Jules is clinging to my arm tightly. The white stain against the blue sky rises, and then there is a smudge of black beneath. The engine seems to rise out of the ground, pauses for a few seconds, poised on the track. Why has it stopped? But it has not- we are aware that it is getting bigger and bigger. At first we can see nothing but the engine, but as it travels down the track the three coaches appear into view behind it, like a snake moving towards us. Jules screams, but it is not a scream of fear, it is excitement because we know what will follow.
There the dream ended, Juan, and I awoke in the silence of the night with a sense of overwhelming sadness, so much that I felt the tears in my eyes, followed by uncontrollable sobbing, there alone in the night. What does it all mean? I don’t know, but it is the same every time.
But I can still remember those days very well. The train getting bigger and bigger, the whistle hoot, then the noise, the steam all around us, the screech of the brakes as we run along the platform alongside the engine, the driver waving. The engine stops and the driver climbs down and drops between the engine and leading carriage to unfasten the chain, then, as the passengers are walking along the platform he helps us up the five foot ladder into his cab. It is summer so he leaves the short metal folding door open and instead closes a chain. The smell of the smoke and steam and coal dust fills our nostrils, and everything we touch leaves a smudge on our hands. He lifts Jules to a lavatory chain in the roof and Jules knows what to do. She pulls it time after time and with each pull there is a loud whistle. A passenger turns to look inside the cab, and smiles. The driver pulls at levers, then tells me to turn this wheel -and- magic! Steam screeches and hisses, there is a clang and a chatter and the engine moves forward and into the loop. The driver then takes over. The engine stops while the driver changes levers and wheels, then moves backwards as the coaches slide by on our right. The fire man keeps an eye on us because the driver is too busy. At the end of the loop the engine stops, shudders a little, then eases forwards, very slowly, so slowly as it approaches the coaches. Then the best part- the clang and thump as the engine hits the buffers of the rear coach, now the leading coach.
Then it is all over. We are helped out of the cab; after a few minutes the whistle blows again and we watch as the train pulls back up the hill. We wave and shout until we are hoarse, until the back of the rear coach disappears into the ground.
This happened on summer Saturday and Sunday afternoons when we could get away.
A couple of years later the station was closed and fell into disrepair, and the track was used to store old wagons awaiting disposal. At that time I was working on a farm and, in the winter when the cows didn’t need to be taken in for milking I walked alongside those wagons to the farm, up that hill, to the point at the top which was a bridge over the road, then scrambled down the very steep bank on to the road.
At some point vandals managed to unhook some of the wagons and they rolled down the line, smashed through the buffers at the end of the track, and almost on to the road where there was a very tall wall holding back the embankment at end of the track. It took a long time to recover those wagons and from that point no more wagons were stored.
I found an old map of Trentham on the internet and it clearly shows the Trentham Gardens branch line. It shows the station as Trentham Park Station, but you and I know the truth, don’t we?"
Friends like this worth cherishing for lifetime...
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