My Dad's Garden Railway

When my father retired, he built a model railroad in his backyard. Not a small one. A garden railway that winds through the flower beds, crosses a little bridge over a pond he dug himself and goes through a tunnel under the patio.

There are tiny houses, tiny people and a tiny town called "Lillianville," named after my mom. The trains run on real tracks and whistle when they go through the tunnel.

The neighborhood kids are obsessed. Every Saturday afternoon, my dad opens the gate and lets them come watch. He wears an engineer's cap and gives them each a turn at the controls.

This summer, my son, who is five, took his first turn. He drove the train all the way around the garden without crashing it once. My father beamed like it was the proudest moment of his life. Maybe it was.