vanilla

The summer that I turned five my two sisters and I boarded the train in Los Angeles' Union Station for the cross country trip to Nana's house in Pennsylvania. A neighbor bought me a special pair of goldish green corduroy capri pants with a "hobo" with a satchel on a stick over his shoulder stitched patchwork style just above the hem. I took extra care not to muss my outfit during the six days that I would be wearing it.

We made the journey in our train seats, sleeping upright, or in my middle sister's case, running up and down the length of the train, ingratiating herself, and playing cards with other families to get food.

A basket was packed for us filled with crackers and pasteurized cheese spreads to take care of our meals. My older sister, who was about 12, held onto the money allotted us so that we could have food in the dining car for one meal.

In the end, it wasn't enough to cover the cost of dinner for three, so we each purchased a brick of ice cream, wrapped in wax paper, and smoking from dry ice, to eat at our seats that last nite on the train.

The funny man behind the counter and next to the illusive dining car, where we glimpsed white tablecloths as waiters passed thru the door, asked me: "What flavor of ice cream would you like?"

"What kind do you have?" I asked.
"We have three flavors," he offered. "Vanilla, Vanella, and Vinalla."