What We Bring To The Table

Companions at the table are usually people we already have some relationship with and so have a hint of what to expect. Not so on the train.

The spry old-timer extended his well worn hand, his knuckles swollen likely from arthritis. He looked me in the eye and said, “take my hand in yours.” This was about five minutes into meeting Peter Dukich in the Amtrak dining car. We were beside each other in close quarters. I hesitated but it seemed harmless enough so I took his hand in mine. Then he said, “now, squeeze my hand as hard as you can.”

I met his intense gaze, smiled to make myself a little more comfortable and said, “No, I don’t think I should do that.”

“Go ahead! I’ll match you!” He exclaimed with bravado, almost a dare.

We were there for dinner, rolling along somewhere in the southeast corner of Colorado, headed for Chicago. In the few minutes before the handshake, Peter informed me he had just turned ninety, and with a sly twinkle introduced me to his wife Charlotte telling me she was (I do not recall the exact number), on the order of forty years younger than he. Charlotte smiled demurely. Peter then quickly moved on to expounding the virtues of physical work, especially outdoors, and especially in the garden.

I gave his hand a squeeze. And he met it. And he said, “Go on.”

There was no doubt Peter had life force. I thought, “ok, I’ll ease into this,” and said, “Peter, I refuse to hurt you.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he said with steady resolve. “Go ahead.” He was serious about this.

And I squeezed his bony old hand a little more and he squeezed back and I squeezed more and he squeezed back… until the two of us were in all-we-got vise grips, with faces turning red, staring at each other, our arms shaking from the strain and I thought to myself, “… white linen table cloth, flowers in vase, dining car, 90 year old man… and I’m sitting here in a lock grip about to crush his hand… if I made this up no one would believe it!” After a life of mostly physical work I am capable of a substantial grip and this was getting crazy and finally, thank goodness, one of us backed off. We were both breathing hard. Peter had made his point. Yes, physical work, outdoors…

Dinner arrived, my lamb chops a little overdone, but as the high plains landscape swept by, as the light failed, Peter and I continued our conversation about food and energy and life. He was sure to tell me about “Peter’s Powder,” a super concentrated compost he makes and speaks of with great enthusiasm. I’m sure it has some kick. Peter Dukich is a fascinating man in amazing physical shape for any age, not to mention 90. No doubt he has touched many, if not with his iron grip certainly his spirit. Dinner was among the most memorable I’ve had.

After a night of pounding and rocking over poorly kept track, a night of the train stopping and starting and the horn blasting I hadn’t slept well if at all. Brushing my teeth and washing my face while bouncing and lurching along in the teeny bathroom with the teeny-tiny sink didn’t help my demeanor much. But coffee would, so I looked forward to breakfast. Running into Peter and Charlotte again would be a plus but did not come to pass. The steward directed me to a table where a lone woman sat, bleary as me but wearing a suit. I was dressed in my usual attire, permawrinkle cotton. We said good morning to each other, silently acknowledging the insincerity of it. Just give us the coffee. Then two other women came to the table, each also in crisp business suits. Polyester has its advantages. Neither of them looked particularly happy – fatigue as I found out, is not conducive to congeniality.

A bit of small talk went around the table, pleasant enough and then one of them fired the first shot, some comment on politics with an inflammatory barb in it and without warning these three were growling, snapping their teeth, straining against the leashes of civility and generally going for blood. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a sharp knife. I’m glad we didn’t have a sharp knife, because it would have been used it to settle the dispute in a decisive manner and then we would have made the news. I have never before or since found so much to focus on in a plate of eggs and bacon and toast. So I managed to stay out of the fracas, and got the hell out of there and back to the safety of my economy sleeper asap. Oh sleeper, sweet sleeper.

Farms and prairie and the back yards of America slipped by. St. Louis was a stream of vacant factories and warehouses with broken out windows, empty parking lots, derelict cars and a few lost souls wandering around in it all. I looked forward to lunch and knew I would give the steward an argument if I saw any one of the breakfast Valkyries within spitting distance of my table.

Fortunately they were nowhere in sight and I was seated with an elderly and very stately woman of African American descent. She smiled primly and as other diners were seated at tables around us, informed me her daughter and granddaughter would be arriving soon. And in walked a woman who could give Koko Taylor a run for her money and a girl of about sixteen who was, in a word, HOT! The daughter eyed yours truly over suspiciously, then sat down beside me thus cornering me in. The granddaughter smiled and twinkled and wiggled and I wondered, “who would have guessed this combination?” Being the one lone skinny white guy, if I knew what was at all good for me I better mind my manners. To a T. So I mostly paid attention to the grandmother and kept my hands on the table.

Slowly the uneasiness, the what the heck do we do now feeling we were all feeling - except the granddaughter who knew what she wanted to do - melted away and I found out these three were from Bronx, New York, and Grandmother, whose deceased husband had been a train conductor all his working life was treating to a train trip around the country. As we bore down on Chicago we talked about life in New York and New Mexico, and train travel and I loved their New Yourk accents. We told jokes and laughed and had a wonderful time. Where else would I have lunch with the matriarch and two succeeding daughters of an African American family from the Bronx?

The Amtrak dining car is a place and experience not to be missed. Dining with strangers was by far the coolest part of getting to Chicago. The next coolest part was at the station where the bag I checked was the first to come off the conveyor belt.

Gordon Bunker

Photo courtesy of Amtrak.