Don't remember the year exactly, but it was probably some time around 1990. My parents moved from their second home of more than a decade in Wilmette, a north suburb of Chicago. My Dad had a wine cellar full of, well, wine and spirits with ages ranging back to my year of birth. It included a great collection of German Rieslings and such. As they packed up everything from their house and planned a move to a smaller residence, my siblings and I were allowed the opportunity to pillage whatever may remain. Being the only one still in town, I gravitated to the wine cellar and grabbed up the old wine, as I prepared for a train trip to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Got some great books, too. Still have them.

Bob Circle (my Pops) educated me in many things. One included an understanding of wine and spirits. All of my brothers and sisters were included, but I wonder how much they all listened. I suppose a couple did, as they know good grapes. I wonder whether they were at the dinner table during the economics discussions, I know they were for the history lectures... we're all fascinated by the latter. Here's the thing... it's all about timing. As the great raconteur, Bob Circle, planned a move to a smaller house, he offered me the chance to pilfer his wine cellar, a small room I had worked for years to learn how to break into and use without notice. Now I was allowed to take my pick!

So, as I packed my bags, I made sure I had room for several bottles of good German wine from as far back as 1968... yes, it was good, this is the beauty of a Riesling. I've always been good at not becoming attached to anything much. I want my books, my music, some clothes, and my guitars. If it doesn't fit in a few boxes or bags (pronounced beg in my new home of Wisconsin), I don't suppose I need it. Everything else is contained within my head.

My dear ole Ma and Pops dropped me at the Amtrak Station in downtown Chicago (that'd be Union Station), and bid me goodbye. I love riding the train. An aside... I wish riding the train was a great deal cheaper than flying. I hate flying. I love watching the countryside pass by.

We road through many states. It's a twenty-five hour ride on the Southwest Chief from Chicago to Albuquerque. You tell me how much longer to Los Angeles, I dunno. Didn't care, I was going to New Mexico. I loved it there and still do. I've sat in the lower level drinking vodka with hippies from Santa Fe and jamming all night, time passing by like the high mountain desert sands around us. All of a sudden, you're there. But this trip, things went a little off track.

"Well, folks, we are now passing the highest point on the Santa Fe Railroad, location of the furthest west Civil War battle, and, oh, looks like we're losing our electrical."

What's that?

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it seems our electrical systems are failing. Um, this means our toilets won't flush, water will be warm, and we can't cook anything for ya. We'll be stopping in Raton, New Mexico and putting you all off the train. The local diner will feed you. After dinner, we'll give you the option to either stay on the train or jump on a bus and they'll take you where you're going. Keep in mind folks, the train will not have flushing toilets, cold water or air conditioning. We'll be pulling into Raton in twenty minutes."

Hmmm. I think I preferred the guy who jumped on the intercom (may've been the same guy) back in Southern Illinois and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you look out the right side of the train, you'll see the old hemp fields left over from World War II. Yes, y'all, that'd be marijuana growing along the tracks."

The train almost tipped over from everyone running to one side hoping to catch a mile marker or street sign and some idea of what town we were passing through. Notebooks came out, people laughed, left and right. We were all amused.

The latest news was not amusing. Sorry, shoulda put it this way... we are not amused.

We're at the Colorado-New Mexico border, Raton Pass. Albuquerque is four hours from here, assuming we don't run any further behind, as we're already five hours behind schedule. Do I want to jump on a bus crammed with sweaty people bitching about the long trip they have to Phoenix, Vegas or L.A. and wonder if it's safe to nap, wondering when someone will role me over for my bag and guitar? Oh, well then, that was easy. I'm riding the train with the people that possess, ya know, balls. I'm not riding the bus.

So, after we completely and happily overwhelmed the three waitresses at the diner in Raton, those of use with an adventuresome spirit jumped with a gleam in our eye, back on the train and settled into, well, pretty much any seat we wanted.

Very quickly, we were all joking and getting to know each other. If you've ever traveled long distance (I was on TWA flying home from London the day TWA #800 blew up, and we passengers babbled all the way back), it's pretty easy to fill your time making useless conversation. As time rolled by, however, we realized the water was warm and the air conditioning was off. Crap. Someone commented on how they wished the coolers worked in the dining car so we could enjoy a beer. Whoosh... I recalled what filled half my bag (beg). I had several bottles of German wine. Naturally, I chimed in.

"We have dixie cups by the water spigot, I have five bottles of well-aged German white wine. Anyone have a corkscrew?"

Big pause filled loosely with oo's and ah's.

A conductor, recently moved from the dining car, since I guess our original conductor opted for the bus, coughed.

Everyone turned.

He holds up a corkscrew with a sly smile on his face.

Cheers rise up.

I leap from my seat and everyone launches into something along the lines of "Dad is great, gimme the chocolate cake!"

Bottles and dixie cups are passed down the aisle as the waiter-come-conductor and I break open bottles, pour wine into them... I hope you brought some for the whole class... and we all make our way through Lamy and onto Albuquerque. New friends, new memories, new experience. True story. Never ever ever back down or question the beauty of us all and our shared experiences.

Guess I should've called this blog "Riesling in Raton"?