Thomas G. Fiffer

I grew up on the North Shore of Chicago, where one of the defining features is the Chicago & Northwestern Railroad (now known to commuters as Metra). Along the tracks there’s a bike and jogging path: the Green Bay Trail. Until now, I’ve never researched the trail’s history (we often take our childhood landmarks for granted), but Wikipedia notes the trail’s “historical significance dating back nearly 12,000 years, when it is presumed that woolly mammoths traveled along it for migration during the Ice Age.”

There’s more history—including native Americans, the French explorers Joliet and Marquette (the latter of whom gave his name to my mother’s Upper Peninsula hometown), stagecoaches, and a note lamenting the lack of public facilities.

All this is background to my after-school and weekend walks and rides along the trail in the 1970s, when new track and ties had been laid, and old rusted spikes could be found—and collected—for miles.

I remember showing off my big bag of these spikes to a family friend, Mr. Z, who happened to own an electroplating business. He offered to take one and gold plate it, and I graciously accepted his gift. It took one of his employees a whole day to scrape off the rust, polish the spike, apply the thin gold layer, and buff it to a shine that has lasted over 40 years.

The spike has always held a place of honor on my desk, reminding me of childhood adventure, a friend’s generosity, and home.