“As a child, I heard the whistle of the freight train when it came into Lincoln, blocking all traffic for at least thirty minutes. I also heard it at the old station in South Lincoln if we were biking on the old station road. I was nearly paralyzed by the sound, not only the whistle, but the rumble of the train on the tracks. The sensation of boarding the train that would take me to faraway lands was one I already knew. I longed to live in a country with abundant trains. My fascination with the old letters I found in the books in our bookcase never diminished. I wondered why I hadn’t learned to read and write that beautiful script at our school. I had the feeling, in some intangible way, that I’d been born in the wrong country!”

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