Up the steep wooded hill behind my house in northeastern Tennessee lies an open field that has always reminded me of Bambi’s meadow. I often wonder, as I watch them pass through, if the deer that traverse our woods stop at its edge and counsel their fawns on the danger lurking in that wide sunny spot. They forage here regularly on their way down from the mountain that is the focal point of my Appalachian town. On the far side of the meadow behind a rusting chain link fence, railroad tracks wend westward through the neighborhood on their way to Kentucky coalfields. The tracks are generally quiet, but sometimes at dusk as the chickadees and titmice softly chatter in their hushed evening tones, and the last light dances through the summer leaves, I catch the rolling rumble through the trees, and I remember the trains of my childhood.

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Rebecca Schamore lives in Kingsport, Tennessee, where she teaches writing to tenth and eleventh graders at the local high school. She holds an MA in French from Vanderbilt University and is currently working on an MFA in Creative Nonfiction through Spalding University in her hometown of Louisville, Kentucky.

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