originally posted by Steven P. Wickstrom
When I was about five years old when my family went to a train museum. This was a big event for me because I loved trains. At the age of five, I could identify and name almost every car of a freight train. Taking a ride in a passenger train was a big treat. So you can imagine my excitement of being taken to railroad museum. It was probably the highlight of my five years of existence.
Everything went fine until I saw the bright red caboose. Even as a five year old, I knew that the caboose was the most important part of the train. That was where the conductor sat and kept track of every car in the freight train. The crew could sit up in the cupola and watch the train as it traveled down the tracks. It was more temptation than I could resist.
The first indication that my parents had that I was no longer with them came when a lady next to them gasped. She pointed at the caboose and wondered aloud whose little boy it was that was standing on the roof. My parents knew who it was before they even looked. There I was, standing proudly on top of the caboose. I was in a problem of my own making, and I didn’t even realize it.