"Clickety clack, comin’ on back, right on down the railroad track” we sang, as we walked between the rails.

On this beautiful, spring afternoon, my daddy and I were on an adventure. We were going somewhere very special; a place that only he knew of, the Laughing Place.

As we walked, he told me about finding this place as a boy. Back then our family owned the land on both sides of the tracks, from Harrell’s Crossroads all the way to the Cahaba River. When he felt sad or lonely he would come here and be refreshed. We were both only children, so I could relate to those emotions, even at such a young age.

I couldn’t have been more than four years old, not yet in school. My daddy carried our lunch in a brown paper bag with his free hand. We made our journey down the tracks hand in hand.

The trip was half the fun of this adventure. The endless tracks seemed to stretch on forever. I wondered about the places you could go by following them. They must be magnificent, exotic places, but seemed foreign and frightening to me. I didn’t want to be far from the security of home.

On the way, we found the shell of a poor, hapless turtle that got stuck between the rails. That’s all that was left of him and it was bleached white by the sun. It puzzled me that something that felt so soothing to me could be so cruel to another creature. I took the shell home and painted it with bright watercolors. It occupied a special place on my shelf until I grew up, a constant reminder of this outstanding day.

The sun’s heat soaked into everything, the rocks, crossties, earth, and especially the rails. Warmed by its rays, they felt smooth and soft as my bare feet slid along them, trying my best to maintain my balance. Without my daddy’s hand, it was impossible.

As bright and warm as our journey was, our destination was equally dim and cool. We traveled into the edge of a forest and went down the bank into a small clearing. With the bulk of the forest at our back, its arms reached around both sides and tenderly embraced this unique little spot. Sweet smells of honeysuckle filled the air. I immediately knew why Daddy called it the Laughing Place.

At the center of the clearing was a small pool of water. I wondered how it got there, and then realized that it ran from the forest, on the other side of the tracks, through a culvert big enough for a grown person to walk through. In my mind, this was an exquisite discovery, like a secret tunnel that only Daddy and I knew about. My excitement was intense and the closeness I felt to my father was unmatched by anything in my experience!

Much to my surprise, the little pool had fish in it. We could see them swimming close to the top of the water, looking at us, moving their mouths.

They seemed to be asking, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

I’m sure they wondered why we had come to disturb their solitude. There was no reason for them to fear us. We would never introduce any hint of death at the Laughing Place.

We sat down beside the pool and prepared to eat our picnic lunch. I couldn’t wait to see what special goodies were inside that brown paper bag. I knew it would be great, whatever it was. As he laid our tablecloth on the ground, the suspense was almost more than I could bear. Then, out came the fantastic lunch, vienna sausages, pork and beans in the can, and crackers. How glorious!

I don’t remember what we drank, perhaps an RC Cola or one of those orangeades that came in a pint carton like milk. A millionaire’s lunch of champagne and caviar would not have been any better. We began to dig in; all the while, the fish were still eyeballing us warily.

After we ate, we sat there for a while, talking. I don’t remember what we talked about, but it didn’t matter. I was with my daddy and having the most amazing day of my life. I hoped it would never end. I wanted to stay there forever, he and I, watching the fish and searching the meadow on the far end of the clearing for signs of life.

But like all good things, this one had to end. In the meadow, we saw a herd of black and white Holstein cows with heavy udders, on their way to the barn for the evening milking. The shadows of the trees had lengthened, signaling the impending darkness. We knew our time to leave had arrived.

With mixed emotions, I helped Daddy gather our trash and tablecloth and put it back in the bag. We spent a few more moments enjoying the serenity of our secret place, and then climbed up the bank of the railroad tracks for the journey home. At the top, I turned for one more look at our special place. The only evidence of our presence was the fish splashing around, eating the remainder of our crackers.

I went back to the laughing place many times after that, although never with Daddy. I could always find solace there, a feeling that both my earthly father and heavenly Father were with me. With every visit, I quietly thanked my daddy for sharing this place with me.

Many years have passed since that amazing day. I am a grandmother now. I will never see the Laughing Place again, not with my natural eyes. My family doesn’t own any of the land there now but I know our secret place is still there, peaceful, and untouched, just like it was back then. The feelings of that incomparable day live on, in my heart and soul.

Clickety clack, comin’ on back... ... ...

Angela Moore-Duck

Angela Moore-Duck is a free-lance writer from Lincoln, Alabama. She has 2 sons, one granddaughter and another grandhcild on the way. From college days she felt she had a gift for writing and is finally pursuing it through a course from the Christian Writers Guild. When she's not writing she enjoys needlework, playing with her granddaughter, and reading God's Word.

Angela Moore-Duck can be reached at: lexisnonna (at)visionsix.com