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which started with his question, “Do you know why the rails on these tracks are always four feet, eight and one-half inches apart? I did not. So, he told me with glee. Apparently, the reason for this factoid runs all the way back to the time Cones toga wagons were bouncing on the Oregon Trail and back to the era of Roman chariots. Early railroad build ers decided to use the existing ruts of wagon and chariot wheels. Evidently, four feet, eight and one-half inches happen to be the optimal distance between the exhaust systems of two horses if they are properly yoked together. George was a fountain of fun facts and had the kind eyes of a loving husband and father. For example, one Christmas, he paid for a taxi to drive a grandmother more than 100 miles so she could spend Christmas night with her grandchildren instead of being stranded in a nearly deserted train station. But George was no stranger to bad people who had abused their positions of authority, like the commanding officer who required George to take on a big part of his responsibilities because the Colonel enjoyed playing golf more than doing math. George began keeping the bat talion’s books with only one “must do:” “No matter how many hundreds of thousands of dollars you have saved us over the year, don’t ever report left-over funds!” So, George was commanded to go on a spending spree at the end of each fiscal year. Now, I have a better idea about those $500.00 hammers the military is known for purchasing. However, the badness apparently went further up the chain of com mand. During his second career, George became the conductor for the NYC to Washington, DC route. Oh, the stories he had about congres sional conversations and the favorite

locations for their three-martini lunches. His favorite story was about a former senator showing him a letter from a major car insurance company. “Look at this,” he said to George. “These folks will contribute $80,000 to my campaign funds every time I vote ‘No’ for whatever AMTRAK requests.” Hmmm. My second conversation partner was Paul, a middle-aged African American man I sat with in the Café car. We began talking over breakfast but kept the sentences flying all the way through lunch. Paul lives in Delaware but recent ly drove a U-Haul to Georgia to help his friend move to the Peach State. Unfortunately, a mechanical problem required him to hop on AMTRAK for his return home. Like George, Paul seemed to be a genuinely good man. His warm relationship with his wife was evident through a few phone conversations I heard across the table. His two sons made the trip with Paul, and they clearly loved their father. As it turns out, Paul is very musi cal and a platinum recording artist. Well, he wrote the song, but his son, 12 at the time, did the singing. Paul showed me the song on my iTunes account. We listened. It was remark ably good and had been the title track for a film. In case I had any lingering doubts about the veracity of his story, he showed me a photo of himself and his son standing next to a well-known musical artist. All three had glowing smiles on their faces. I then realized that the third person in the picture was someone later accused of gross misconduct. I asked if the famous producer was who I thought he was. Paul said, “Yes,” and his countenance seemed to change to the extent that I could not help but wonder if he, like George, had also been too close to a person possessing great power and willing

... I could not help but wonder if he, like George, had also been too close to a person possessing great power and willing to abuse the imbalance he held over another.

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christian counseling today VOL. 28 NO. 1