Eastern Seaboard Line: Fried Chicken Express

My first train ride is engraved in my memory. Since I could recognize the loud peel of the warning horn I had dreamed of riding that train to a better place. I left North Carolina with a shopping bag filled with my belongings. A meager trust. My shopping bag luggage contained 20 comic books, 3 pairs of underwear, a half slip, a writing pad and a couple of pencils. I wanted to bring more of my belongings, but my grandma assured me that my Aunt Martha was sending me clothes. I would have all of the hand-me-down fashions that a 16 year old southern girl could wish for.

We arrived at the train station very early to take the first train of the day. We were the only passengers at our stop in Norlina, North Carolina. The train had already picked up most of their fare from destinations south of us. The car was packed. I stood up a good deal of the time until a man gave me his seat beside my granny.

It was impossible to sleep because the train was tightly stuffed with African Americans northward bound. (It was the summer of 1967 and Jim Crow laws were not quite dead. As a matter of fact, they were very much in full force.) There was loud nervous chatter as everyone tried to speak above the constant noise of the old passenger car. The protests of animals in the cattlecar reminded me of the farm I was leaving. It did not seem to bother my fellow passengers as they all hugged their tattered suitcases and overstuffed shopping bags. The entire car smelled like a delicious picnic. Fried chicken was the dominant smell, but there was the hint of potato salad and cheap wine and corn licquor. After 3 hours on the train, the aroma of the box lunches was mesmerizing. I had no idea what my grandma had packed. I so wanted to join my fellow passengers in eating their lunches.

"We eat at exactly one o'clock, " my grandma assured me.
I read my comics, earsdropped on several conversations, and dreamed out the window as I watched the southeastern United States rattle by. I tried to erase the wondrous smelled of southern fried chicken from my olfactory senses. As if by clockwork paper bags started rattling. Even my grandma started digging into her large duffle bag.

"Your mother made us a boxed lunch," my grandma said smiling at me. "It's a lucky thing she did. You look starved."

I have never enjoyed fried chicken so much in my life. Ahead of us and behind us people were passing chicken, biscuits and cool aid around. They spoke loudly and enthusiastically as they shared recipes for making the batter used in frying the chicken. A couple of the porters came back and ate their lunch with us. This was the largest group of black people I had ever seen outside of church eating and having fun together. It felt really good to be part of this exodus.